Not Everyone Likes Football
by Naguabo
Summary: Being the family of a high school football coach in small-town Texas isn't always easy. Especially, if like Julie Taylor and her brother Brendan, you don't actually like the game. Many other FNL and original characters will appear. Part 1 of an eventual tetralogy.
1. Be Your Sister's Keeper

**Not Everyone Likes Football**

Author's Note: Okay, folks, now you're really in for it. After one multiple-chapter story from me that wasn't really a big challenge, I'm taking on a mammoth-sized project starting with this post.

This is an alternate universe story in which the Taylors also have a son, Brendan, who is one year older than Julie. It also corrects the incongruity of having Julie be a freshman in high school at 15: she's a sophomore. Some of the main events from FNL Season 1 will take place, but they get re-interpreted to a large extent and some original plot lines and characters are explored. My aim was to create an FNL universe that fans could identify with, while changing many details of the story. Like most universes, it's still a work in progress, evolving rather slowly. This is intended as the first part of a tetralogy – Part 2 will be called _Storms in the Dust Bowl_, Part 3 will be _Win or Get out of Town_, and Part 4 originally grew out of an epilogue and became a whole story in its own right, called _Texas Temporarily_. No guarantees at all as to how long it will take me to write and post everything. Probably years, and without the slightest hope of a regular posting schedule. It'll be here when it's here and that's the best I can do.

**Chapter 1: Be Your Sister's Keeper**

_Macedonia, Texas_

_March 2002_

If Eric and Tami Taylor had been asked to say when they first realized that their son Brendan was starting to grow up, they both would have identified one evening in March when he was twelve years old and their daughter Julie was a few months away from turning eleven.

At around nine in the evening, the Taylor family had settled into a comfortable routine. Eric, the physical education teacher at Macedonia High School and assistant coach of their football team, the Knights, was sitting on the couch in front of the television, watching football plays with the volume muted and scribbling notes on a pad next to him. His wife Tami was sitting at the dining table in front of a laptop computer, working on a project for her guidance counselor certification course and occasionally taking a sip from a glass of wine next to her computer. Julie had finished her homework and was practicing jazz dance steps for her next recital in her room. Brendan was either doing his own homework or reading a book; he hadn't come out to the family room or kitchen since dinner yet, not even for a glass of water.

All of a sudden, Brendan came padding out of his room, wearing a green t-shirt with the white outline of a bicycle on it and jeans. At five foot two, he hadn't gotten his growth spurt yet; his build was still slim and childlike. He had his father's black hair and round face, with his mother's slightly darker skin and brown eyes; unlike either of them, he wore glasses with round brown plastic frames. He was holding a thick paperback book in his hands. The cover showed a drawing of a football play in progress, a running back in a red and blue jersey about to run past his offensive line with a couple of defenders wearing white headed in his direction, and the title read in big orange letters "NEVER MATTER MORE: Small-town High School Sports and Society, by Sam Katzenhart." Brendan stopped a few feet from the couch and held up the book.

"Dad, Mom, I need to know something," he said with a hurried voice. "Are you like the people in this book?"

Eric and Tami glanced up at their son and then at each other. Tami's look at her husband clearly said _you take this one_. Eric nodded wordlessly and then waved his son over. When Brendan didn't move, Eric said "Come over here, son. Sit with me and we can talk about this."

"OK." Brendan said and gingerly sat down, still holding the book in his hands.

"I read that book too when it came out," Eric said. "What's bothering you about it?"

"I don't like the people in it. The coaches, the teachers, the boosters – none of them really care about the kids playing ball. All they want is a winning team and a famous high school. If the kids get hurt, if they get an education or don't, if they're happy – none of them care, or almost none of them. Look at what happened to Danny Townsend, or Ricky Baylor. Or the defensive tackle who didn't know how to read. And the rally girl who got pregnant."

"Brendan, have your mom and I ever done anything that makes you think that's what we're like?" When his son shook his head decisively, Eric went on. "So what's got you asking this?"

Brendan put the book down on the coffee table and placed his bony hands together. "Well... you're a football coach too, and Mom wants to be a school counselor. And this is Texas. Abilene, Waco, Sutton, some of the towns where these things happened – they're not that far away. Everyone in the book keeps saying this is the only way things can be. If that's what football is, Dad, I don't want anything to do with it. It's way too sleazy."

Eric winced visibly. He took a quick look at his wife, who had stopped typing and was watching them, but had clearly decided not to intervene yet.

"Brendan..." Eric started out slowly, "Those stories in the book, they're all real. But that's not the way things have to be. When I work with the boys, I try to get them to think about their character, to be good guys off the field too. I care about them."

Tami took another sip from her glass of wine. For a tense moment, the only sound that could be heard in the house was Julie's feet practicing her steps on the hardwood floor of her room.

Brendan looked straight at his father. "So none of your players have the girls doing their homework, or cheat on their tests, or have the teachers fake their grades so they can keep playing?"

Tami blinked and then whistled softly. Both Eric and Brendan turned their heads to look at her.

"I can't say that never happens," Eric said, "but if I find out it does, I try to get it stopped. It's not something I would let happen, or want to happen. It's not right. Cheating is wrong, on the field or off."

Tami nodded and then decided to enter the conversation. "Do you remember how Jeff Perrell kept coming around last fall because he needed help from your Dad? He was worried about learning how to play right, and your Dad helped him, and he turned into a great player, and a fine young man. He really grew up over a few months, and not just about football."

Eric stretched out his arm and placed one hand on Brendan's shoulder. "I always tell my players," he said, "any time they've got a problem or they need help, they can come talk to me. You know how Mom wants to be a guidance counselor? There's a bit of that in what I do too."

"Well, that's great," Brendan said, screwing up his face seriously, "I mean, thanks for telling me that, but I still don't want to play football."

Eric squeezed his shoulder. "That all you're worried about, tiger? Guess what, you don't have to."

Brendan blinked. "Really? It doesn't bug you?"

"Well, a bit, maybe," Eric said, "but that's 'cause football is my job and it's something I'd love to teach you, to share with you. My dad was always on me about how he thought I wasn't a good enough player. I used to play quarterback, you know. Anything I did, he was never happy. If I threw three touchdown passes, he'd ask me why it wasn't four. And he never – I mean never, to his dying day – he never forgave me for not becoming an NFL star. Anything less than that made me a failure to him. And I decided I would never be putting any son of mine through that."

"Amen to that," Tami stage-whispered from the table. She raised her glass in Eric's direction and emptied it.

Brendan's face brightened and he reached over and squeezed his father's shoulders, which was as close as Texan males came to openly hugging each other, except on very rare special occasions. "You're the greatest Dad alive. When I grow up, I want to be a writer like Mr. Katzenhart. Find out what's going on and write about it. And ride my bike all over the place."

"Yeah, well, you do that if that's what you want," Eric said with a smile. "But there is some other stuff your Mom and I are going to need you to do as you grow up."

"Like what?" Brendan's face grew wary in an instant. "Chores?" He was twelve years old. It was completely inconceivable that someone his age could like housework. He shifted slightly in his seat.

"No, not chores, fun stuff we can do together." Eric said. "Well, you can call 'em jobs because they're things that help your family. Doesn't make them bad though. You're gonna be a man, Brendan Zachary Taylor, and there's some stuff that a man's expected to know how to do. Like fixing stuff when it's broke, barbecuing, putting stuff together, any lifting – you and me, we'll be getting it done. It's part of growing up."

"OK," Brendan said in a voice that indicated he'd give his father the benefit of the doubt. Then he turned to his mother. "Is there anything you need me to be doing too, Mom?"

"Yes, actually," Tami said, "I need you to be a good big brother to Julie. Watch out for her so nobody bothers or hurts her, listen to her any time she needs to talk to you, just take care of her and be her friend. Maybe sometimes she's going to need to say some things to somebody her age that she's not quite ready to tell us."

"Girl stuff?" Brendan scowled. "Shouldn't she be telling a _girl _that?"

"Not girl stuff, kid stuff. School stuff. Growing up stuff. With your Dad's jobs and moving and things, you've gone through a bunch of different schools and kept having to make new friends. I need – we need – the two of you to stand by each other, be each other's friends. And wear your helmet when you're biking."

"It's all about being family, son," Eric said. "You're older than Julie, so she's got to know you've got her back. And there's just a bit more that I need you to do if you're not going to play football."

"Like what?" Brendan looked surprised.

"First, I need your support." Eric said, looking into his son's eyes to hold his attention. "You don't need to do anything for any football team I'm working for, but I don't want you telling everyone you don't like football and why. This is Texas, son, and people love their football. It matters a whole lot to them. If you talk down to what people believe in, they're not gonna be nice to you. So be careful about talking about that. People can be real mean if you do. If anyone asks why you don't play, blame your eyes or something. And since you said I'm the greatest Dad alive, I'd really appreciate it if you'd come to my games just like your mom does."

"What about Julie?" Brendan asked. "Does she have to go too?"

"What about me?" Julie herself appeared in the hallway, clad in her leotard and tights, with her eyes wide open and her long blond hair tied in a bun. "Where do I have to go?"

"To come watch my games," Eric said. When Julie made a face, Tami interjected "And we'll come to watch all your dance recitals. All of us."

"Dancing?" Brendan said and stood up. "I gotta watch her dancing?"

"Of course," Tami said firmly. "It's part of being a family. Just like if you were in some bicycle race you'd want all of us cheering you on, wouldn't you? Or if you wrote a book, you'd want us to buy it and read it, right?"

Brendan put up his hands in surrender. "I guess I would." Then he walked over to his sister's side slowly and took her small hand in his. "I got your back, Julie. I'll be a good brother and always keep you safe." His sister gave him a smile and a quick hug. "Thanks, Brendan."

Brendan turned back to his parents. "How'm I supposed to do that though?"

"Be strong for her, kiddo." Eric said. "I'll give you some tips. It's part of that man stuff we're gonna be doing together."

"Mom, Dad, Brendan," Julie said bouncily, "I figured out all my steps! Want me to show you?"

"Sure, let's do that." Eric said after a moment. "Sit back down to watch, Brendan." Then his voice changed into a parody of an announcer, "La-dies and Gentlemen, the one and only Miss Julie Taylor!"

"Shouldn't we put on the music for you?" Tami asked Julie.

"Can we have ice cream after this?" Brendan asked half a second later.

"Private family recital, with music and ice cream, let's do it!" Eric's voice boomed. Then he waved to his wife while Julie ran off to her room to bring her dance CD. "Come over here and sit on my lap, babe. It's part of being a family."


	2. Trouble in Paradise

**Not Everyone Likes Football**

**Chapter 2**: Trouble in Paradise

_Dillon, Texas_

_September 2006_

Another hot, dry, and dusty Texas September day was in progress as Jason Street and Lyla Garrity made their way arm in arm into the Sandwich Shop. Like a proper young Texan gentleman, he opened the door for her and let her enter first.

They were Dillon's current "it couple": the handsome senior quarterback and his girlfriend the head cheerleader. With his boyish blue-eyed oval face, short and straight brown hair with sideburns, solid build and perfect blend of poised self-confidence and polite manners, and her combination of a girlish hairdo and face and a womanly, athletic figure, they were hard not to notice and remember.

"Hey, Jason, Lyla," Brendan Taylor, now sixteen years old, called to them from behind the counter. "What can I get ya besides the usual Aztec Burger?" It was Sunday midafternoon, so the shop was mostly empty, with just a few other customers.

"Hi, Brendan!" Lyla sang out and gave him a smile and a quick wave. Jason took a few seconds before he made a move or said anything.

"Hey, B, you can give me the Aztec, but make it extra spicy, with fries and a root beer." he said in a slow, deliberate voice. "And when you bring them out, you mind coming over to sit and talk with us a bit?"

"Let me ask Mr. Olson," meaning the manager, "but it should be okay. Anything for you, Lyla?"

"Sure," she blinked, "the turkey and spinach salad and a Diet Pepsi." Brendan headed back to the kitchen to prepare their order. In a few minutes he brought the food and drinks to the booth where they always sat. The whole school, or rather the whole town, respected that: this was "Street's booth." He was an inch shorter and a year younger than Jason, but four years of weightlifting had made him broad in the shoulders and chest and intense cycling kept him from becoming fat. A pair of copper-framed glasses perched unevenly on his nose.

"You should have played," Jason said to him. "You'd have made a great linebacker."

"Give it a rest, Street," Brendan said in a flat voice. It was only the thousandth time he'd heard people say this sort of thing. Then he took off his glasses. "You can't hit what you can't see. You're just a blue and pink blob right now."

"It's really that bad?" Lyla asked. Brendan nodded wordlessly as he put his glasses back on. The he moved to sit down at the edge of the booth. "So what's on your mind, QB?"

"I'm worried about Tim," Jason said, looking Brendan in the eye while holding Lyla's hand under the table. She started eating her salad, but slowly, and with a pointed look on her face. "I think he's going off the rails and I can't figure why or what to do about it."

"Off the rails how? And how come you're comin' to me about it?"

Lyla answered the first part. "He's drinking. And I mean like crazy, every day. The rally girls do his homework. He just sits there spaced out in class. And him and Tyra, they fight all the time and break up, then he makes out with other girls, and then they fight and get back together again."

"Right." Brendan nodded. "So why tell me?"

"'Cause you're Coach's kid, and you're smart, and we're friends," Jason said. That much was true. Coach Taylor had coached Jason from a young age and molded him into the star he was today. In fact, sometimes Brendan wondered whether his father wished Jason had been his son, but there had never been any kind of bitterness or resentment between the two boys. One played football and one didn't, they were both honor students, and sometimes they hung out together and talked.

"Well, I got news for you, Jason," Brendan drawled. Unlike his sister Julie, he didn't make a deliberate effort not to talk like a Texan. "I'm the last guy Tim Riggins would ever listen to. He calls me 'football hater' or just plain 'hater' to my face. If I wasn't his coach's son, or close to his size, I think he'd belt me one just for the... just to blow some steam off."

"Come on, Brendan, he's not like that," Lyla protested with her fork in the air.

"Tim's had it rough," Jason continued in a lower voice. "Did you know his mother killed herself when he was ten?"

"No. I wasn't living here yet when that happened. What about his dad?"

"Poster child for dead-beats." Jason had to be troubled to be talking this way. "Guy lives out in Corpus Christi or somewhere, sponges off girlfriends, makes his drinking money hustling golf and pool. Tim lives with his brother, but Billy has his hands full just trying to hold down a job."

"That why your folks have him over for dinner every Tuesday?" Jason nodded at this question.

"Last year when Tim became a starter as a freshman," Jason said, "nobody was happier for him than I was. I mean, he's my best friend. Now I'm thinking maybe it's gone to his head. Do you think your dad could talk to him?"

Brendan shook his head. "Off the record, he's just about used up his patience with Tim. I hear him every day when he drives us to school. Of course, just when he's telling us 'if Riggins shows up hung over again I'm gonna rip the helmet right off his head and throw it in the lake', Tim shows up with his head on straight and lights up the field."

"Yeah, he can do that." Jason said.

Brendan turned towards Lyla. "Lyla, your dad's the absolute king of the Booster Club. Have you tried talking to him?"

"He doesn't get it," Lyla said with a sigh. "Says 'a little beer never hurt nobody'. The boosters actually leave 12-packs on Tim's porch. And it's not like all the cops don't know he uses fake ID."

"Sleazeballs." Brendan almost spat. "What about the rewards, how if he stays focused, the team can get to the playoffs and state championship, or a college scholarship later on?"

"I try to tell him that, but it only works for a few days," Jason's frustration showed in his voice. "He tells me all the time about this dream of his, that I'm going to make it to the NFL and buy a big ranch and he's going to be the caretaker. Calls it 'good friends livin' large in Texas.' See, he's already getting what he wants, girls, beer, and hero worship."

"Guess he's going to have to learn the hard way." Brendan said and stood up. "Take some hits, get benched, maybe suspended. Unless he can listen to you or your Dad. He's already not listening to mine."

"That might break him." Lyla said.

"Hey, what's a guy gotta do to get some service around here?" A booming voice sounded out from in front of the counter. A fat middle-aged man wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and a cowboy hat stood there tapping his boot-clad foot impatiently. "Get a move on, kid, for Chrissake!"

"Sorry, Mr. Whitney," Brendan moved as quickly as he could. "Just shootin' the breeze with Jason here about how he's gonna pick Westerby apart on Friday. What can I get ya?"

_The next morning_

The Taylor family listened to Slammin' Sammy Meade's Panther Radio talk show in the morning as they drove to Dillon High School. That was Eric's choice, actually, but the unofficial Taylor family rule was that whoever was driving got to choose what everyone listened to.

"This new Coach, Eric Taylor, he's even got camera crews watching his practices. Who does he think he is, Mack Brown?" some irritated lady was telling Mr. Meade. "And speaking of people named Mac, it's Mac McGill who should have been named head coach, after all, he's been the offensive coordinator here for the last twenty years!"

"I don't get how you listen to this stuff, Dad!" Julie piped up from behind her father. "It stresses me out, and I'm just a sophomore."

"Maybe your Dad thinks he might get some ideas that way," Tami said. "A lot of businesspeople say they're inspired by their hate mail."

On the radio, Slammin' Sammy was talking in his classic downhome drawl. "Well, I hear ya, Ma'am, but the powers that be made that decision and we have to imagine they had a reason for it. After all, our amazin' quarterback Jason Street, he and Coach Taylor go way, way back, they've been working together since Street played pee-wee ball."

"We are definitely getting a different soundtrack once I start driving us all." Brendan added.

"Such as what?" Julie asked. "Reggae CD's you borrowed from Jay Greer? Or Mexican music from your friend who taught you Spanish and moved to California?"

"Or your jazz dance CD's, little sister."

"No way!" Julie was horrified. "Then you'd leave them in here and I'd have to come get them myself every time I want to practice." Brendan began to protest, saying that he'd never lost any of her CD's yet.

"Y' all mind?" came Eric's voice from the driver's seat. "I'm tryin' to listen here, just give me another five minutes."

"I'm worried about our defense." A younger man was saying on the radio. "Westerby, they run a lot of counters, and their o-line is mighty strong. I'm not sure we've got the right guys to stop 'em."

"Coach Deeks is stopping by later today for a little shop talk." Eric added.

"Why don't you invite him over for dinner?" Tami asked. Coach Wilton Deeks had been Eric's first boss when he'd given up on the chance of playing in the NFL and started working as an assistant coach. Now he was in charge of the football program at Whitmore University, a couple of hundred miles to the north.

"The guy who used to bring us donut holes and call me 'little sugahbabe'? He's funny." Julie said almost at the same time as her mother.

"That's him all right," Eric said with a smile. "I asked him to come over, but he's got to head back to Whitmore for his own team's practices. I'll tell 'im y' all said hi, though."

"Dad, you've got the NBC people coming this afternoon to interview the players, right?" Brendan asked. "Do you mind if I sit in on it so I can see how they work?"

"Go right ahead, son." Eric nodded. "Just be careful what you say to 'em."

The football talk on the radio continued. An older man with a hoarse-sounding voice was saying "It makes you wonder what kind of man this Coach Taylor is when his son's a junior and isn't on the football team. Not even that, as far as I know, the boy hasn't played a single down of the sport ever. How can that even happen in Texas?" Eric and Brendan both tensed up instantly.

"If I knew who it was that said that..." Brendan muttered.

"Yeah, what would you do, Brendan?" Eric stepped on his words. "You wouldn't do a thing, that's the answer. All over town, all the time, now that I'm head coach, there are gonna be people thinking they can tell me how to do my job. You can't fight them all or argue with them all or anything. It's like they say on those cop shows on TV: anything you say can and will be used against you in the kangaroo court of the media and the rumor mill. Just let 'em talk. It's my job to deal with it, not yours."

"This town is crazy." Brendan groaned and sank in his seat, not a difficult thing for a 200-pound teenager to do.

"Technically, Texas isn't even a state," Julie said, "It's a republic. It would be nice to live somewhere that's actually a part of this planet. I took a look at a website that lists coaching jobs all over the country; there have to be some in nice places where people are a bit less insane about football."

"Honey, you didn't." Tami said, turning back to look at her daughter. Julie went on, mentioning one ad she'd seen that came with a house overlooking Puget Sound, except she misprounounced it as "pudgit".

"See, I heard somewhere that a daughter is supposed to be a comfort and a blessing to her father." Eric pouted.

"What if I make pancakes for us on Saturday?" Julie countered.

"Then I get to clean up and wash the dishes," Brendan added.

Julie tapped her brother's arm. "Always got my back, right, big brother?"

"You betcha, Julie-jewel." Eric and Tami both smiled at this as they arrived at the school parking lot.

NBC Sports had come out in full force. Camera crews, lighting gear, makeup artists, and a cigar-smoking supervisor who barked orders in three directions at once. A group of about five or six players, already wearing their jerseys, had gathered around Coach Taylor: presumably, they were the ones who'd get interviewed. Jason Street was there, of course. So was Tim Riggins, the tall and muscular fullback with uncombed dirty blond hair, wearing number 33. Brian "Smash" Williams, the record-setting running back born in the inner city, was standing around with his chest puffed out. The defense was represented by its captain, defensive tackle Greg Budden, and strong safety Bobby Reyes. Other players moved around at an intermediate distance, falling approximately into three categories: those who wished they were being interviewed, those who were curious about the interviews, and those with no desire at all to get roped into answering questions.

"Hey, Brendan" Jay Greer, the team's Jamaican-born kicker, greeted him. "Come to watch the media circus?"

"To find out how to run one of my own," Brendan said and shook his friend's hand. Now that Carlos Palacios had moved to Los Angeles in July, Jay was probably his closest friend left. "You suppose you'll ever get interviewed?"

"You kiddin' me, mon?" Jay let his accent come through. "I'm the kicker. They don't like to remember I exist."

"Or that I do either, apparently." Brendan deadpanned. "Look, I'm going to ask the reporter if I can listen in."

"OK, catch you later." Jay moved off. Brendan made his way towards the chairs were the interviews were going to take place. The reporter had to be the man talking to his father: around thirty years old, a light-skinned black man with a shaved head, tall and slender, wearing a perfectly ironed light blue button-down shirt, no suit or tie. Coach Taylor was in his blue Panthers T-shirt, cap, and shorts. On his way over, Brendan said hello to a few assistant coaches and players who he knew, like sophomore Matt Saracen, the backup quarterback whose father was in the army, usually deployed in Iraq.

"We're just about ready to start, Coach Taylor," the reporter said in a voice that showed clearly that either he wasn't from the South or he'd had speech training. "Once your players are ready, that is. Is this your son?"

"And proud of it." Brendan answered before his father could. "I'm Brendan Taylor, Sir. Since I'm interested in possibly studying journalism, would you mind if I watched the interviews, just to understand how you do your work?"

"Tommy Hastings, NBC Sports." the reporter held out his hand for a shake, which was firm and quick. "Nice to meet you, Brendan. I can see the family resemblance. Sure, you can watch the interviews, if you can just stand over to the side a bit and take care not to make any noise. Could I talk with you a bit later?"

"Um, that's not actually a good idea, Mr. Hastings." Brendan said this and then noticed his father let out a deep breath.

"OK then." the reporter didn't seem disappointed. He pointed to an area that was still in the shade and off to the side from where the cameras would be, not directly behind them. "Would over there be all right for you?"

"Sure." Brendan answered. "And thank you. I'll talk to you later, Dad." His father just gave him a silent wave. Brendan moved to the designated spot and listened.

The interview started with Coach Taylor and Jason Street being asked about how they'd worked together for a long time. "He's a good boy," Coach Taylor said, "We expect a lot of him and he produces." Jason added that he enjoyed being on a team where the players all knew each other. No really tough questions were being asked, so far. Brendan wasn't sure whether he should feel disappointed in the reporter or relieved for his father's sake.

Things changed somewhat when Smash Williams was getting interviewed. Mr. Hastings called him Brian, but he referred to himself as "the Smash". Smash talked big about both the team's prospects and his own: "gonna get my national championship on and get my Heisman on." Except when he was asked about his father, who'd apparently died a couple of years earlier. "I don't talk about that. You want to ask me some football questions, I'll answer your football questions."

_How did Hastings find out about Smash's father?_ Brendan wondered. He hadn't known it himself, although they were both juniors. He'd seen Mrs. Williams, a large lady who worked as a nurse, a couple of times. _One more guy without a dad_, Brendan thought, remembering what Jason had told him about Tim Riggins, and Matt Saracen's father off fighting a war.

"Man, this here's the best team. They got me!" _Come on, Smash, could you possibly get any cheesier?_ Hastings then asked him about allegations of racism on the team. Brendan wondered whether he could ask Jay about that some time; after all he had a unique perspective: the white kids considered him black and the black kids considered him a foreigner. Smash didn't say there was or wasn't any racism, just that he didn't let it stop him. "I got thangs to do."

Tim Riggins was up next. "That ain't racism, I just don't like 'im." Meaning Smash, apparently. "He could be from Saudi Arabia, or Sweden, or Czech, and I still wouldn't like him." At least he hadn't been hung over in geography class. When he was asked about his aggressive play, Tim said "I just like to hurt people." Of course he'd had to play aggressively to win the starting fullback job as a freshman. And then Hastings asked him whether he'd been drinking, which Tim denied. _If the guy can smell it on his breath, it's probably there,_ Brendan thought. He'd told his father about the boosters supplying Riggins with beer, but at sixteen he was just cynical enough to believe nothing would change. People would just lie and say it wasn't going to happen again. _Jason, how on Earth did you believe I could help you with Tim?_

Brendan was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't notice that Tommy Hastings had come closer to him and the cameras were actually facing his direction. "Brendan, it's unusual for the son of a Texas football coach not to be involved in the game. What's behind that?"

"Mr. Hastings," Brendan crossed his arms over his chest, "I said I didn't want to be interviewed." Should he walk away now?

"This town is passionate about football and your father's the new head coach. People are saying that your not being on the team says something about Coach Taylor. How do you feel about that?" the reporter insisted.

"Yeah, I know," Brendan stood straight and glared at Hastings. "I heard a bunch of nitwits on the radio questioning what kind of coach my Dad is because he doesn't make me play – how about thinking that makes him a good father, since he respects my wishes? I'm just not a team sports guy, I like bicycling and lifting weights, plus my eyes are shot. Isn't it better to have the people who are actually into football playing it? Or are you going to ask me why my sister isn't a cheerleader or a rally girl? Our father lets us be ourselves. What everyone else needs to do is let him be himself, and do his job. He can do it."

"Thank you for speaking your mind, Brendan." _The nerve of this guy! _"And that wraps up our interviews here in Dillon, Texas, home of the Panthers." Hastings made some kind of gesture to his cameramen and the lights went off in a second.

Coach Taylor came over and grabbed his son by his right arm. "We had a deal, son. I warned you about the media."

Brendan didn't try to wrestle out of his father's grip. He could have, but that would be too much like fighting. He turned to him, head slightly bent, and said "I know, Dad, but he just wouldn't let it go. I felt like I had to stand up for you, or they'd just keep on saying stuff against you. And I didn't say anything bad about football, just that I'm not into it."

Eric Taylor's gaze and grip softened, and he moved his hand to his son's shoulder. "OK, I understand. I know you're loyal, it's just that sometimes a man's got to choose which battles to fight. Sometimes firing with both barrels isn't the way to do it."

"Dad." Brendan looked his father in the eye; after all, they were close to the same height, with Eric having an extra inch or so. "Really, honestly, do you wish I was playing?"

"Course I do, but I wouldn't force you to do it." Eric looked right back at him. "The truth is, you've already got the heart and the character that I want all my players to have. Football, that's my job and I would have loved to teach you that. But you and Tami and Julie, you're my family, my life. The guys out there, they could stand to learn from you. I'm proud of you, son."

"Thanks, Dad. It's not just Julie's back that I got, y' know." They bear-hugged each other. Then Eric stepped away, saying that he had to start practice. Brendan could have sworn he saw him blink a couple of times.

_Lunchtime in the school cafeteria_

Brendan was sitting with Jay Greer discussing Jamaica – he absolutely had to go there some time, Jay made the place sound fantastic - and reggae music when he noticed that a couple of guys were checking Julie out. Well, that was bound to happen sometime. She was fifteen and no longer a little girl. And as far as guys went, those two were relatively harmless: Matt Saracen and a friend of his who was a freshman, a blond guy with little eyes, what was his name, Lance Clarke? No, Landry. Julie was sitting there reading a book. Brendan was close enough that he could overhear their conversation whenever it happened. Also close enough to go into protective big brother mode, if needed. This might be interesting.

"Yes?" Julie said to the two boys after they had come close enough to make it clear they intended to talk to her.

"I'm in your English class, I'm Landry." He seemed to be the more talkative one, while Matt seemed to be more focused on looking at Julie.

"And?"

"And Matt and I were wondering if we could sit and eat with you. Talk a little about the book you're reading and stuff." Landry continued.

"You're on the football team." Julie said, looking at Matt.

"Well, he barely is." Landry kept talking, but he'd started to look a bit uncomfortable. "I mean, he's second-string."

"I hold extra points sometimes," Matt cut in, while looking clearly bewildered.

"Technically, though, you're still on the football team." Julie said. "And I don't eat with football players."

"I'm not on the football team, though." Landry said.

"And I don't eat with you either." Julie said. And then, to temper the blow, she gave them a bright smile. "If you need somebody to eat with, you could try my brother. He eats with everyone, especially if they give him some food."And then she went back to reading her book: _Moby Dick_, Brendan could recognize it from the cover and the fact that he'd had to read it last year.

"Mon, your sister is a genius," Jay said to Brendan with a wink. "I wonder how she'll shut down the next guy. And you might get some extra food out of it."


	3. First Down

**Not Everyone Likes Football**

**Chapter 3: First Down**

_Wednesday evening_

For Tami Taylor, time at home after dinner usually could be divided into two parts: family time and "relaxing with Eric" time. Right now was the first part: everyone had gathered into the living room and was doing something that wouldn't disturb the others. From August to December, usually Eric took control of the TV set to watch game film with the volume turned off. By this time, Julie and Brendan would ordinarily have finished their homework, or at least most of it, unless they wanted to exchange some thoughts or ask for help. These days, since Brendan was usually working at the Sandwich Shop, there was less time with the entire family gathered together than there used to be. Also, since Tami had just been offered the job of guidance counselor at Dillon High School, soon there would be work issues invading her evenings. Still, she was determined to enjoy this type of evenings while they lasted. It was usually at this time of day that her children would come out with insights that surprised her, proof of the inevitably bittersweet fact that they were growing up.

This time it was Julie. Out of the blue, while Eric was taking a break from reviewing game film and Tami was making some preliminary notes on issues to focus on for her new job – as well as checking out some real estate listings, since the house sometimes felt a bit cramped - Julie placed her copy of _Moby Dick _on the arm of the couch and said "This book is the perfect metaphor for this town!" Brendan actually turned off his walkman to listen, and Eric sort of swiveled his head in Julie's direction to hear whatever was coming next.

"I mean, it's like this. The dark gray sea reflects the football season and all its uncertainty. The sailors are like the team. The white whale is like a Holy Grail – the state championship. Jason Street is Starbuck, the first mate who wants to do everything by the book. Smash Williams is like Queequeg, the African warrior..." Julie's eyes had brightened as she began listing examples.

"I dunno, Julie," Brendan cut in, "there's no way I could see Smash Williams going on a religious fast. The guy really loves his hamburgers."

"He would if he thought it'd help him score more touchdowns," Eric said.

"Fasting and silence. That last one is way off the map for Smash."

"Come on, you guys, I'm serious!" Julie protested.

"Nobody's making fun of you, Julie," Tami said. Her daughter sometimes needed encouragement, and Brendan's sense of irony wasn't always helpful. "I think it's a great idea. Write your report that way."

"Now that you've started," Brendan nodded, "keep going. Figure out everybody. Or we can team up to write a modern version of it, sort of like '_Call me the backup linebacker._'"

Even Tami and Julie had to laugh at that one. "Does that make me Coach Ahab?" Eric asked with his brows furrowed.

"Absolutely!" Julie was thrilled. "Coach, captain, hunter, hunted! It totally works!"

"You sure you're mine?" Eric peered at her. "I might have to ask for a DNA test."

"Who are the boosters, then?" Brendan continued the comparison. "The shipowners? Or the evil whale meat merchants who try to cheat the whalers out of their money?"

"There are no whale meat merchants in the book, Brendan." Julie admonished him. "It was whale oil that they wanted to sell. And they made some things out of whalebone."

"I like that one," Eric cut in. "I'm going to use it on Buddy Garrity sometime. 'You're nothing but a whale meat merchant.' It's great!"

Tami laughed again. "The funniest part is, I guarantee you he won't get it. You kids are just amazing sometimes."

Eric pretended to grumble. "What am I, chopped liver?"

"Course not, Dad," Julie walked over to her father's side and put her arm around him. "I just told you, you're Coach Ahab."

_Friday evening_

Julie could feel the tension and excitement in the air as she walked from the parking lot to Herrmann Field with her parents and her brother. This wasn't her first time at a Texas high school football game by any means, but it was her first time with her father as the head coach of her high school. Not that she bought into the whole idea of school spirit, rites of passage, and so on – Dillon High School was just the current stage of her life, nothing more. She'd already been to five different schools before that as her family moved around Texas and had lived in seven different houses, some of which she'd liked more than others.

There were jerseys, caps, football-themed children's toys, and all sorts of other paraphernalia being sold in the parking lot. Julie counted at least five different hamburger or barbecue stands. If she'd been just with her mother, or just with Brendan, they might have engaged in snarky observations about the whole Texas football craze. This time, though, with her father there as head coach, it didn't feel right to joke about what was, after all, his working environment. This bizarre, violent game that drove the entire town crazy four months out of the year, this was what paid the Taylor family's bills and mortgage and other expenses.

Like many athletes and coaches, Eric Taylor had his own sort of pre-game ritual. He would walk to the stadium from either the car or the school with his whole family. If they drove to the game, this was the only time the radio wouldn't be on. Whenever the Taylors had walked about halfway to the stadium, Eric would announce that it was "time for me to go in" or words to that effect, and his wife and children would give him a quick hug or a thump on the shoulder and some encouraging words. This time, the occasion somehow seemed more momentous, which made the four of them gather into a group hug. Tami was the most intense of them all, as Julie could see from the expression on her mother's face as she let go of Eric. This was all too solemn, she thought – somebody had to lighten the atmosphere a little.

"Give 'em a good harpooning, Coach Ahab!" Julie squeezed her father's shoulder and saw him smile at that.

"And tell your players they all get a discount for the week after a win," Brendan said. Of course Dad wouldn't tell them that, though, or if he did, it would be after the game. They were supposed to be focusing on football, not food.

Coach Taylor had already moved a few feet away. He gave them all a wave and then seemed to square his shoulders as he headed towards the locker room. Julie turned toward her mother and asked "So where are we sitting, Mom?"

"Forty-yard line, six rows up." her mother answered. Brendan seemed distracted as he scanned the crowd. Julie had to tug his arm twice to get his attention.

"Hey, brother, what's got you spaced out like this?" Julie said to him with a teasing smile. The smile vanished from her face once she noticed his expression. She'd seen her brother angry before, but this time he was just plain ferocious. "Sorry, forget I asked." she mumbled. She tried to follow his gaze, but didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. By that time, he'd shaken his head violently and joined them on their way up the steps.

"Stephanie McFall," Brendan's voice had an icy edge to it. "Told me her Panther kissed better than I did. And said he knew how to do a lot more too."

"What?" Tami and Julie both said at the same time.

"Yeah." he said without moving his head. "And with my luck, they'll probably come in together next week – whoever he is - and I'll have to fix them burgers and watch them make out in a booth. At a discount."

"That absolutely stinks, big guy," Julie said and patted his arm quickly. "But if she treated you like that, she's not worth your time."

"And then the week after I asked her to come out on a bike ride with me." he added, bending low so only she could hear him. "Guess I hoped she'd change her mind. And you know what she said?"

"No, what?"

"She said 'Give me a break, Taylor. Real men have cars.' Those exact words."

"What a -" Julie quickly clapped her hand over her mouth. She and Brendan weren't supposed to swear in front of their parents. Next time, she'd have to figure out something imaginative to say instead. Banana-brain?

Their mother pointed out their seats without saying anything. Julie sat in the middle, with her mother on her right and Brendan on her left.

"Hey bro?" Julie looked into her brother's eyes. "I get it that you want somebody." So did she, actually, but that was a different issue. "But -"

"I know," Brendan said. "I'm not cool enough to be boyfriend material in this town. I could probably _throw_ one of the Panthers for a first down, but who cares."

Julie couldn't help giggling at that image. "Sorry, just trying to picture it." He waved her apology away.

"Listen a second, Brendan," their mother reached across and tapped his hand to get his attention. "Not all the girls buy into the whole football culture. You can do a whole lot better than someone who puts you down. You will do better, someone will appreciate you for who you are for sure, just wait. And smile more."

"I'll believe that when I see it, Mom." Brendan rolled his eyes. "Not gonna happen here."

"You're still the greatest brother on Earth, though," Julie told him and gave her brother a quick hug. He flinched slightly and then it was like his body melted a bit and he hugged her back.

"I thought Texas wasn't a part of this planet, kiddo." Brendan deadpanned to her. Sometimes it was scary the way he remembered the slightest quip. At least he didn't sound angry or sad any more.

"Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't, Brendan," Julie said in a fake mysterious voice. "And who knows how, when, or why it happens. Come on, until we can watch Dad win, let's think up some jokes about the other team. I think they're called the Chaps."

"Like in chap stick?" he almost laughed. Good, it worked. "I thought Chaps was British for guys."

"Nooooooooo, that'd be the Blokes." Julie said, slightly forcing a smile in the hope of encouraging one from him. "And out here it'd be the Dudes. Or the Whatchamacallems."

"Perfect!" Brendan clapped his hands together and then mimicked Sammy Meade's voice. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Dillon Panthers and the Westerby Whatchamacallems!" He said it loud enough that five or six people in front of them turned around. And then they kept up the banter at a slightly lower volume, going through the Blisters, the Vaselines, the Ointments, and the Hydrocortisones. And then it was kickoff time. Shortly before that, Julie felt her mother squeeze her right shoulder quickly and out of the corner of her eye, noticed a nod of approval.

Julie, in spite of herself, had learned to understand football. She didn't like football players, and she shared a lot of her brother's misgivings about what the whole football system did to people. Still, after years of watching games and seeing how the game seemed to absorb her father's life, it was something familiar to her. If she saw how crazy the fans and boosters and parents could get, and if she cringed at how they treated her Dad sometimes, that just made her wish that they could live somewhere that there was more sanity going around, not think that she'd rather have a carpenter or a video store owner or an insurance agent for a father. Well, maybe a video store owner might be cool.

The game started well for the Dillon Panthers. A successful kickoff return gave them good field position. Two running plays, one with Smash Williams running the ball and one with Tim Riggins, and the team had a first down. And on the very next play, star quarterback Jason Street dropped back and threw a deep pass that number 16 – what was his name again? Eugene Williams - hauled in and took to the end zone. "Awright, Dad, show 'em who's the boss!" Julie yelled as the crowd went wild. Three plays and they were already ahead by seven. Her mother let out a whoop and raised her hands way above her head, while Brendan just stood up, clapped, and then yelled "Take that, Hydrocortisones!". He just had to do everything his own way, Julie thought, even cheer at a football game.

Unfortunately, the game was no cakewalk. Westerby wasn't fazed by the Panthers' quick strike, as they ran several counters on the way to a touchdown of their own. Dillon took the lead again, but it was clear that their opponents had a tough defense and had prepared themselves well. At halftime the two teams were tied 14-14.

"Dad's probably chewing them out down in the locker room," Brendan remarked at halftime.

"What kind of a leader would you say he is?" Julie asked both her mom and her brother together out of sudden curiosity. She never watched the football practices, and even if she had to be there for some reason, she preferred to read a book or listen to some music, rather than watch a bunch of sweaty guys knocking each other around. Football players were not her type – not that she'd figured out yet what her type was, but they felt wrong to her. Anyway, her question triggered an interesting debate about leadership, taking command, orders versus persuasion, punishment versus rewards, and other issues. Herrmann Field wasn't exactly where Julie would have expected any mental stimulation, but that was part of what she liked about her family: they were up to talk about almost anything, whether it was serious or funny. Well, OK, Dad didn't talk much, but when he did, surprises might be in store. He was – what was that word from the ancient Spartans? Her father was a laconic man: just get the point across in a few words. The polar opposite of the big talkers like Buddy Garrity or Smash Williams.

In the third quarter, things got even worse for the Panthers. Their offense wasn't finding a way to score, and their defense couldn't keep Westerby from putting ten more points on the scoreboard. Either the Panthers managed a quick comeback, or the game was lost. They started a new drive, and seemed to be moving the ball well, until the worst possible thing happened.

Jason Street got knocked out of the game and had to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance.

It went like this: he overthrew one of his receivers on a deep pass, and a leaping Westerby defensive back grabbed the ball in midair and started running it back. Jason was the only one who could stop him from scoring a touchdown, which would have put the game completely out of reach. The two players collided in a fast and furious tackle, with the ball coming loose and both of them flat on their back. Half the stadium winced, and once it was clear that Street couldn't get up on his own power and the trainers rushed in to put him on a stretcher, everyone in the stands crossed their fingers.

"Dammit, Jason, be all right. _Be all right_." Julie could hear Brendan muttering under his breath, as he kept the fingers of his right hand crossed and held his left in a clenched fist. She kept her fingers crossed as well, just because she didn't like seeing anyone get hurt. The stadium was so silent that the ambulance's siren could have been heard miles away. Her mother's face had turned pale with worry. "We're going to have to go to the hospital," she said. Julie and Brendan both nodded.

Somehow the game ended. The backup quarterback, the one who'd wanted to eat with her earlier in the week, looked small and completely lost out there, but he managed to throw a touchdown pass on the last play of the game and pull out a win for the Panthers. Then, with the players still out there on the field, actually some of them still on the ground, Smash Williams led them in a prayer for Jason Street. Julie felt chills go up and down her spine at his words. "Lord, we just need you to be with Street right now... We know that you work in mysterious ways, and we just want to send our spirit, and our love, just to heal him in whatever way you see fit." Julie wasn't religious; she only went to church on Sundays because her parents expected it, but this prayer moved her. Nobody deserved to get hurt that badly just playing a game. _Dad's gotta be feeling lousy right now_...

"Julie. Brendan. Listen to me here." Their mother's voice had gone full-on into take-charge mode. "We're the coach's family. We all need to be strong here, to be there for anyone that needs us. Jason's folks, his friends, anybody." She didn't ask them if that was all right or they'd understood or wait to see their reaction. Then her cell phone rang.

"We're all up here, Eric," Tami said. Then she pushed a button to put the phone on speaker, so Brendan and Julie could hear too.

"Tami, whole team's headed for the hospital in the bus as fast as we can, I'm with them. You got your car keys?" Dad's voice sounded a bit out of breath, hoarse and dry. He must have done a lot of shouting.

"Sure do, Eric. Meet you there?"

"Yeah, hon. Mitch and Joanne already went."

"Dad," Brendan cut in. "How bad is Jason hurt?" Right, he and Jason were friends.

"Too soon to tell." Dad coughed. "But it looked as bad as anything I've seen. Look, I gotta go. See y' all there. Love ya." Mom hung up the phone and signaled for them to start moving. Brendan squared up his shoulders and started pushing through the crowd and apologizing in random directions at the same time. Julie followed her mom through the path he created. It was like chasing a bulldozer, or maybe just a bull.

There was nothing you could really do in a hospital except worry and wait. Anything else you did was just a distraction: alternating between standing up and sitting down, walking around, watching other people or talking to them, getting yourself something to eat or drink, and then after a few minutes you just had to worry and wait some more. Unless somebody told you something that made it really clear what was going on, you worried and waited and that was it.

Brendan hadn't been inside a hospital for years, except for one field trip with health class. He and Julie had both grown up pretty healthy, and he couldn't remember his parents ever getting sick. This was his first time being there for someone else, and he had a hard time staying still. There weren't enough chairs for everyone to sit down anyway. Worrying about Jason, he felt the same surge of tense energy that he usually dealt with by biking for miles at top speed or punching a bag in the garage and lifting weights in every way imaginable until his body got so tired that it brought his brain down with it. Would Jason be able to play again? To walk again? The only encouraging thing he'd heard was that apparently Jason had managed to thank the emergency techs when they lifted him onto the stretcher.

He'd said hello and exchanged a few words of discomfort with Jay Greer, Matt Saracen, and a handful of other players. Just to have something to do, he'd offered to bring several guys sandwiches or cokes or something, but everyone had lost their appetite. Tim Riggins was glaring at him for some reason. Mom and Dad were with Mr. and Mrs. Street in the hallway right outside Jason's room, and Julie was stuck at Mom's side because there was no way she wanted to face a whole roomful of nervous football players. Brendan thought about joining his family in there, but then he caught a look from Mr. Street that gave him the shivers. It was like the man's thoughts had burned their way right into his brain: _am I going to have to watch everyone else's son standing up and walking around when my boy can't any more_? So he stayed out in the waiting room and kept checking the hallway every few minutes. Lyla Garrity, still in her white and blue cheerleader's uniform, broke down and started crying on Julie's shoulder. Julie held on to her, because otherwise she would have fallen over. The sound of her crying tore at Brendan's insides, and probably not only his. He turned around and then Tim Riggins stood up and marched straight at him with his shoulders squared and his fists bunched. "What the hell 're you doin' here, football hater?" Tim challenged him. His breath didn't smell, so he wasn't drunk, not that he would have had the chance to get drunk on the way from the stadium to the hospital. His blue eyes were bloodshot and glazed over in an angry haze.

This wasn't the time to try to explain that he didn't hate football, but what that whole system did to people – after all, Tim wouldn't understand him since he was already getting chewed up by Dillon football. "I'm here for Jason." Brendan said, not backing down at all. Riggins had an inch or two and five to ten pounds on him, but that wasn't a big difference. "I'm not his best friend like you are, Tim, but I still care about him."

"Don't bullshit me, Taylor." Tim countered. "Everybody knows you're no friend to the Panthers."

Smash Williams had appeared behind Riggins and pulled on his arm a little. "Hey, c'mon, Rigg, Street wouldn't want anybody to fight right outside his room here. We gotta think about him now."

"If that was me in there laid out instead 'a Jay, would you be here like y' are now?" Tim asked Brendan.

"Course I would, Tim. You, Smash, Greer, Bradley, anybody. Y'all are my Dad's players. If he's here, I'm here."And then a pause. "If you don't like me, fine, but that won't help Jason or his folks any."

Tim stayed in front of him for a few more seconds and then slunk off to the side, muttering "God, I hate hospitals." Smash watched Tim move off and then gave Brendan a slow nod.

"Smash, your prayer for Street was the real thing," Brendan told him.

"You all right, Taylor." the running back put his hand out and they shook quickly.

Over in the hallway, Brendan could see his father open the door to Jason's room and step in. His mom stood with her back to the wall. The Streets had to be inside with their son. Lyla's parents had taken charge of her and were moving her into a chair, where she collapsed like a rag doll.

After a minute or so Julie was at his side. "Brendan, how much longer do we have to stay here?" she asked him in a small voice.

"Dunno." he shook his head. "Dad's in with Jason now, want me to ask Mom if I can run you back?"

"Let me think about it a bit." she said, nervously nibbling on her lower lip. "Wait and I'll tell you." Then she moved over to where Lyla was sitting and stood next to her with her hand stroking the distressed girl's shoulder and arm.

Think. Wait. Worry. And then some more. That was all you could do in here.


	4. Fault Lines

Thanks for the reviews and follows, everybody. I try to write things my own way, but that doesn't keep me from hoping people like what I write. Just keep in mind that it's inevitably going to be slow progress here; too many other demands on my time and energy. I can promise, though, that this story is going to have lots of chapters.

**Not Everyone Likes Football**

**Chapter 4**: Fault Lines

The news of Jason Street's paralysis hit Dillon with the impact of an earthquake. Inevitably, the Taylors found themselves right in the middle of it while the whole town, with almost no exceptions, went at least a little crazy.

Like with September 11, people exchanged information on what they'd just been saying and doing and who they were with when Jason Street threw his fateful interception and tackled the Westerby defensive back. Everyone who knew someone with some sort of spinal injury, and even more people who knew nothing at all about them, had some sort of story to tell, whether it was hopeful or gloomy. The churches where people had been praying the previous Sunday for his recovery – regardless of their denomination or their specific congregation – were now taking up collections for his physical therapy and the inevitable expenses that would fall on his family's shoulders. In the mind of every single person remotely associated with the football team, the key question was "What do we do next?" Every imaginable answer to that somehow found its way onto Panther Radio, regardless of whether it made any sense (such as converting a player from another position to quarterback) or could actually be done (such as hypnotizing Matt Saracen on the sidelines before every game so he'd feel more sure of himself, or even believe that he was the real Jason Street).

From behind the counter at the sandwich shop, Brendan observed the whole drama unfolding. In one booth, a couple of freshman girls were actually crying about how "I can't believe how Jason Street was sitting right there a week ago and now he can't walk again." Then Tyra Collette, Tim Riggins' girlfriend, a tall blonde with long hair and a figure that could mesmerize every male in Dillon over ten years old, walked right up to them and told them "Seriously, quit crying. You don't even know Jason, so just knock it off," which just made them look even more pained and ready to cry.

Brendan decided it was time to intervene. He left the counter and tapped Tyra on one bare tanned shoulder. Warm. When she turned around, he told her "Tyra, let 'em be. I can't have you scaring my customers."

Tyra tossed her head angrily. "They're annoying." She jerked her thumb towards the girls at the table, who were already moving to leave.

"So's at least half of the whole world population." Brendan countered.

"Did you really think I was gonna start a riot in here, or did you just need an excuse to stare at me?" She was hard not to stare at, all right, with her form-fitting tank top and shorts, but Brendan thought he'd been making an effort not to. He just shook his head.

"If you want to be a cop, talk to Landry's dad or someone, don't practice on me." Tyra wasn't backing down.

"If I was a cop, all the boosters would be in jail," Brendan replied. That actually made Tyra blink, but she countered with "Well, get yourself that badge, Taylor, and then I might even listen to you." Meanwhile Tim had gotten up from his table and joined them. "There a problem here?" he asked in a slightly slurred voice.

Brendan shook his head. "I don't think so, Tim. Hey, tomorrow my dad and I are going to see Jason at the hospital, you want to join us?"

Tim's gaze darkened a few shades. "Nope. Can't. I'll go another time." Then Tyra took his arm and steered him back to their table. The girls that Tyra had scolded left quietly and Brendan went back behind the counter.

In what used to be Jason Street's booth, Smash Williams had started holding court in a group of players and friends or fans of his. "Get behind the Smash," he said with a wide smile, "and we won't be missin' a beat!" Upbeat, talking big, not quite paying attention to how he might sound to someone else – that was Smash Williams, all right. This time the "someone else" was Tim, who came up right behind him and said "Get up, Williams, and get your guys another table. This is Street's booth you're sitting in." If Brendan hadn't had three different customers in front of him, he would've gone over there, because Tim's voice sounded like a load of trouble.

"Anytime Street comes in here," Smash made a kind of wave around the place, "he can sit anywhere he wants, I don't mind." Even a couple of Smash's friends winced at that comment.

"You think you're in charge of the team now?" Tim's voice sounded the same as when he'd challenged Brendan at the hospital. Brendan couldn't see, but he would have bet his life savings Tim had his fists clenched and ready.

"You wanna know what I think, I'll tell you what I think," Smash said, facing Riggins square-on. "With Street out, the rest of us are gonna need to work an extra bit harder. We-all gotta step up. I think my yards and touchdowns show I'm ready to step up here. What about you, Rigg? 'Cause I don't see that at practice."

"I'm ready for goddam anything," Tim snarled and tapped his chest with a fist. Tyra had come to his side and was trying to drag him off, but she couldn't move him.

"Then why don'tcha sleep it off and make sure that way you're ready for next practice?" Smash said. Brendan's arms tensed up when he heard that.

Surprisingly, Tim wasn't goaded. "Yeah, you're right," he said. "Y' all have a nice evening." He and Tyra had gone half the way to the door when Smash came out with "Smile, Rigg. God don't like ugly." In a split second, Riggins had grabbed a glass off the table and thrown it into the wall half a foot above Smash's head. Tyra grabbed Tim and hustled him off as fast as she could, while Smash stood up aggressively and his friends restrained him from going after Tim. Brendan hurried over with a broom and dustpan to clean up the broken glass. Smash's table had gone silent, maybe because a big piece of glass had landed right in the middle of Greg Budden's cheese fries.

"That was dumb, Smash," Brendan said as he finished cleaning up.

"You sayin' that to me?" Smash was incredulous. "I'm not the guy who winged that glass. Or the guy who shows up hung over at practice. I'm doin' my job, he's gotta do his."

"If you hadn't come out with that last bit," Brendan said without raising his voice, "he was as close as he could ever get to listening to you."

Smash didn't seem to get what Brendan was saying, but Greg did. "You're Coach's son, all right. You mind gettin' me another one o' these?" He pointed to his plate of fries, which had several shards of glass in it.

"I'll put it on the Smash's bill," Brendan said. Smash gave him a wild look but soon relented after he saw everyone else's expression. Brendan gathered up a couple of plates and finished cleaning.

In the life of a football coach, there are good days, there are bad days, there are days with a mix of both, and there are days when you really wish you hadn't gotten out of bed that morning. Eric was having a day that fit squarely into the last category when Tami walked into his office, put her arms around his shoulders, and whispered to him "The field's empty, let's go make out."

Eric lifted his head and looked slowly at his wife, maybe in order to make sure that he hadn't dreamt her presence and words. "Honey, those are the best words I've heard this whole day."

Without saying a word, she started to massage his shoulders. Eric let his muscles relax and slowly began to tell her about the practice that had just ended fifteen minutes earlier. "Tami, I feel like I'm tryin' to walk a tightrope between a minefield and a mutiny."

Bless her heart and all the rest of her, Tami kept on rubbing his shoulders and back. "Remember when I used to do that for you after every game?" Eric allowed himself his first smile of the day and kissed her gently. "Loosen up and tell me about it," she said, so he started telling her how everything had gone.

It started with Coach McGill, the offensive coordinator who many people – probably including Mac himself - felt should have gotten Eric's job. While the players were coming out onto the field, the older man said to Eric, in a voice that the boosters in the stands certainly would have heard, "I think we ought to focus on the ground game today." Eric may have been in his first year as head coach, but he was Mac's boss now, not the other way around, so he just replied "I'll run this practice." And he proceeded to do just that, but Mac wasn't the only one with his own ideas about how everything should go. Smash Williams said almost the same exact thing a few minutes later, just he claimed that "Me and the guys were thinkin'" about it. Eric's patience wore thin and he ordered Smash to run the bleachers fifteen times. When the running back protested, Eric upped the penalty to twenty runs, and then twenty-five, saying "You want to know how high I can count? I can count real high!", at which point Smash caved in and started running.

At quarterback, Matt Saracen clearly wasn't comfortable or confident yet. He was overthrowing his receivers and sometimes his passes were getting tipped by defensive linemen. "How can you not see him?" Mac yelled at Saracen after a lineman batted down his pass. "He's bigger 'n my front door!" In a full-on practice, the only thing Eric could do at that moment was tell the sophomore quarterback that he needed to work harder, "learn those plays so your children will have them in their DNA." Saracen seemed to understand what he was supposed to do, but understanding and execution were two completely different things. A bye week would have come in handy at this time, but no such luck.

Just when Saracen seemed to be starting to get things together a bit, Tim Riggins and Smash Williams started fighting each other over whether Smash was following Tim's blocks correctly or whether Tim was blocking the wrong player or in the wrong place. Running backs coach Dan Crowley, the oldest of the Panthers' assistant coaches, tried to get in between them, but he just got shoved and his clipboard and papers started flying around all over the place. Once Eric had gotten that mess under control by threatening to bench both players for the next two games, he noticed that in the stands, Buddy Garrity, the president of the Boosters Club, was talking insistently to his own old mentor, Coach Deeks. Eric hadn't expected Deeks to be there, and he felt ashamed at what the other coach had to see.

"You know what I'm starting to think, Tami?" he said to his wife as he finished recounting how the practice had gone. "Maybe everyone's right and Jason Street was my meal ticket, - not to mention the reason I got this job - and without him nothing's the same. God bless that boy, but I am screwed. Matt Saracen, he's not ready, and you know how it is when the quarterback can't manage to lead the team, everything falls apart."

Tami stopped massaging and draped herself around Eric's neck just as he was ready to lower his head in despair. "Yup. Well... I know what you're going to do," she said, "You're going to mold Matt Saracen and make him into a leader, a man, just like you did with Jason and with Jeff Perrell back in Macedonia, and don't tell me you don't remember how green he was back then. He didn't know the difference between a skinny post and an out-and-up. You're going to step in and work that coaching magic of yours."

Eric turned around to look at her. "I had a year to work with Jeff Perrell. This time with Saracen, I got no time at all. And I don't know how many losses this town can stomach before they toss me out the window like a rotten fruit."

Tami moved around until she and Eric were facing each other, with her hands still on his shoulders. She looked him right in the eyes. "There is not a person in the world who could do this but you. This is what you do, I've seen you do it with my own eyes. I believe in you. I believe in you with every cell in my being. And don't you ever forget that you're not just an outstanding coach, you're a great husband and father too."

"God, Tami," Eric sighed, grasping her arms, "You are my rock. I don't know how I could get through things without you."

"Well, Eric," she drawled, "the good thing is that you're never going to need to worry about that." She moved closer to him, clearly intending to pull him into an embrace, but they were interrupted by a knock at the door. Eric pulled up the blinds and saw that Coach Deeks was standing outside the office with his green Whitmore windbreaker in his hands. Both of them stood up in an instant.

"Good to see you're still here, Eric," the older coach said, putting his hand out to shake. "Nice to see you too, Tami." He clasped hands with her as well. "Sorry to bother you like this, but there was something I thought I needed to tell you."

"What's that?" Eric asked. Maybe it was a tip about their next opponent, the San Marco Rattlers, but Deeks wasn't holding any tapes.

"Your big-shot booster guy, Buddy Garrity," Deeks paused and ran his dark brown fingers through his silvery beard. "He was askin' me to find out what I could about this kid Voodoo Tatum, a quarterback who was state champion of Louisiana the last two years until Katrina put his school underwater. I don't go for stuff happenin' behind a coach's back, so I thought I'd better tell you before I headed north."

"Can he do that?" Tami asked. "Just bring in a player from somewhere else?"

"In college he probably could," Coach Deeks nodded slowly, "but I don't know how the rules are for here. You might want to read up on that. Guys like Garrity, they usually try to make the deals first and then smooth everything over."

"Whale-meat merchants," Eric said under his breath. Tami blinked. Eric got the feeling that in a different situation, she would have smiled.

"Wish I could stay more," the older man said, "but both Clara and AD Hutchins would have my skin if I wasn't back in Whitmore tonight. Give those kids o' yours a big hug for me while you still can, I got mine scattered all over the country now."

"Thanks, Coach," Eric said slowly, "I'll keep what you said in mind."

Coach Deeks took off his silver-rimmed glasses and put them back on, and then he fished around in his pants pocket for his car keys. "Eric, if this town won't appreciate you, there might be a desk with your name on it up at Whit."

Instead of answering, Coach Taylor looked at his wife. He could read the thoughts in her facial expression: _Let's hope it doesn't come to that_. They both nodded thanks at the same time. The three of them exchanged quick goodbyes and then Eric started packing up his things to go home.


	5. What Comes Out of the Woodwork

**Not Everyone Likes Football**

**Chapter 5**: **What Comes Out of the Woodwork**

The Panthers lost on Friday to the San Marco Rattlers 13-7, with Matt Saracen getting stopped just inches short of the goal line on the last play of the game. Just two weeks earlier, at the opening of the Garrity Motors dealership that had turned into a Panther pep rally, Julie had wondered out loud to her mother where all the love the people of Dillon were showing Coach Taylor would go if he lost a game. The Taylors found out on Saturday morning, waking up to a front yard filled with a couple dozen "FOR SALE" signs. Brendan angrily volunteered to clear them off the lawn and dump them at the Booster Club on his way to work, but Eric and Tami overruled the second part of his suggestion. Julie recommended recycling the paper signs and putting the wooden sticks in the garage to use as firewood in the winter, or as stakes for planting tomatoes in the spring. Eric tried to lighten everyone's mood by telling them about one of his old bosses, Coach Hal Wheatley, who had seen a group of locals planting the same kind of signs on his front lawn during the night and had opened a window to tell them "You idiots ought to know that I rent!" After that, he offered to bring everyone food from the Sandwich Shop for lunch, to give Tami "a chance to relax and celebrate your first week of work."

Tami said "I like that idea" and Julie said "Can I come with, Dad?" at about the same time.

"Sure, honey," Eric said, "as long as you and your brother can get all the signs off the lawn. Oh, and you might want to get dressed first." So they did. After everyone had gotten dressed and eaten breakfast, the Taylor family Saturday morning ritual of assigning the various weekend chores followed, complete with attempts by everyone, parents included, to talk their way out of jobs they didn't want to do or talk another family member into swapping chores with them. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. Half an hour later, Brendan took his bicycle and helmet out of the garage and pedaled off to work.

A few hours after that, Julie and Eric got a firsthand look at the new mood of the people of Dillon.

Eric let Julie out in front of the sandwich shop and then went to park the car. She walked in and began chatting with Brendan about her latest idea of the family getting a dog. After Brendan went back inside to prepare their order, a very large man in his thirties or forties with a black goatee wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a cap stood up from his table, turned to Julie and said, "You're Coach Taylor's girl, aint'cha?" in a deep and harsh voice.

Julie, surprised by the man's tone, said nothing more than "Yes" and looked quickly to see whether her Dad or her brother was nearby.

"Y' all started packin' yer bags yet?" the man asked

.

"Excuse me?" Julie replied, and breathed a sigh of relief to see Eric coming through the door.

"Is there a problem?" Coach Taylor asked the man.

"I was just tellin' your daughter here what happens when a coach pisses away the season," the man drawled.

Eric clenched his teeth and leaned forward. "Look, I've got my fifteen-year-old daughter here with me, so I'm just gonna walk away from this. But I appreciate it. Real classy of you."

"You're gettin' us nowhere with them dumbass plays you call," the man countered. Meanwhile, Brendan had come back behind the counter, and after a quick look at the scene in front of him, came out to stand next to his father, taking Julie's arm and moving her slightly off to the side.

"Thanks for the input," Eric rasped through his teeth. "It's under advisement."

"You ain't got what it takes to coach, Taylor," the other man said. "That's why you're never gonna get one of these." And he flashed his Texas State Championship ring.

"Did you go undefeated in your State year, mister?" Brendan asked. Ignoring his father's whispered "Don't", he went on to say "For that matter, there's no way you won State every year you played. How about this? I'll bet you one week's paycheck that my Dad gets the Panthers into the playoffs. If he doesn't, I'll sign it over to you. If he does, you pay me just as much. And Julie, maybe we should get a real big dog so it bites a chunk out of anyone putting signs in our front yard."

The man shook his head and turned to go out the door. "Your boy's got guts," he said, "I dunno about you though." And then he left. Eric gave him a sort of wave. Brendan checked on Julie to see whether she was all right, and then he said "One game. All the morons come out of the woodwork like that after just one game."

For a moment, all three of them looked at each other and then clasped hands silently. Julie shuddered visibly.

"Do not listen to any of that, kids," Eric admonished. "It's just noise."

Brendan went back to the counter to bring everyone's food, audibly muttering the names of several breeds of large dogs. "Wolfhound, Caucasian, Great Dane, Siberian Husky, Doberman... "

"Dad, is it going to be like this all year?" Julie asked. Eric shook his head, but not very firmly. Then he offered to buy her some ice cream over at the Alamo Freeze.

Eric walked to the field house expecting to find it empty and hoping to do a bit of thinking by himself on how to plan the next practices. Instead, all of his assistants were eating pizza and watching videotapes of Ray "Voodoo" Tatum, the currently homeless prospect from Louisiana that had already won state championships as a quarterback.

"I didn't know we were allowed to have a party after a loss," Eric said loudly to get everyone's attention. A few of them blinked or took on somewhat sheepish expressions, especially the new quarterbacks coach who Eric had hired to fill his previous job. Well, actually after his first choice had been completely unreachable, but that was another story.

"This ain't no party," offensive coordinator McGill said. "Buddy Garrity brought all this over" - he waved an arm around the room - "so we can look at a quarterback who might win some games for us."

"Yeah, well it's real nice of you to let the head coach know what you're doing." Eric said dryly.

"Wait til you see the next play after this one," McGill said, "Tatum faked out two rushers and threw a forty-five yarder across the field."

Eric blinked and looked at his coordinator. "You seen these tapes before, Mac?"

The older man nodded. "Three days ago, at Buddy's place after dinner."

"Didn't know y' all were such good friends," Eric said, although it made sense. McGill had been an assistant coach for years, probably even back when Buddy himself had been the quarterback of a Panther state champion team. Mac looked his boss right in the eye, no hint of apology – or of hiding anything for that matter. "We go back quite a ways," he said, with the unstated implication that this was how things worked in Dillon and if you didn't know that, you were the one with the problem.

"That's nice to know," Eric nodded. "Andy," he said, turning to the quarterbacks coach, "you mind packing up three slices for me to take home later?" As the young man moved to follow his order, he continued: "Now we got a practice to prepare. Guys, we're a team too, so we need to work like one if we want the Panthers to. Next time there's an informal scouting session without my knowledge – especially with food around – we all start running laps with the players at practice, me included, and just as many as they do."

To their credit, none of his assistant coaches protested. A couple of them looked shocked, though. Good. Maybe the whole Dillon football setup needed to be shaken up a bit more. While everyone else cleared their pizza slices, napkins, and glasses away, Eric went into his office and started looking through some of his notes and play diagrams. Practice came first; he'd watch the tapes afterwards.

%%%

"Run that again," Eric told Tim Riggins. The sophomore fullback had just run through a gauntlet of players pushing leather barriers at him, except he'd only run it at two-thirds the speed that he could, and he wasn't standing completely straight afterwards. "And stand up straight when I'm talkin' to you." Then he addressed the rest of his players. "We just lost a game that we ought to have won with our eyes closed. How many years since we lost to San Marco, seventeen?" They knew you didn't answer a question like that. Then he signaled to Riggins to run through the gauntlet again, yelling at him to keep his legs moving and his head up, except Tim didn't go any faster this time.

"That was not the best you can do and you know it." Eric stood over his fullback and raised his voice. "You give 110 percent all the time, not just when you feel like it or you think you have to. All the time, not just the big games." Tim took a couple of steps back and began to remove his helmet.

"Don't do that, son," Eric said. "Don't do what I think you're about to do."

He did, though. Tim took off his helmet and walked off the practice field without saying another word. After a few seconds, Eric moved to go after him and convince him to come back, but McGill stopped him. "Let him go," the offensive coordinator said. "He's been in the film room a bunch of times, watching the play where Street got hurt, over and over again. Thinks it's his fault it happened."

"His fault?" Eric's eyebrows were halfway to his hair. "He was thirty yards away, on the other side of the field."

"You know that and I know that, Coach," Mac said, "but if you think hard enough you can blame yourself for just about anything."

Eric just nodded. He was going to have to talk with his fullback soon.

%%%

The motel outside of Marlborough that Buddy Garrity drove Eric to on Sunday, the one where the Tatum family was staying, was literally in the middle of nowhere. Except for a gas station with a tiny mini-market, all that Eric could see around the motel was vacant lots, abandoned or only partially built buildings, and dusty fields. The building itself was barely more welcoming than that, a flat-topped brick and concrete structure with barred windows, rusted rain gutters, and an unlit sign. You had to squint to see any signs of the town of Marlborough in the distance. Clearly, this was a place where people stayed only if they had no other choice. And how much of a choice could homeless hurricane victims be expected to have?

Naturally, Eric and Buddy had argued on their way over. "Matt Saracen may be a wild card right now, but the good thing with him is that I don't need to worry about recruiting violations." Eric had said.

"Nobody's doing any recruiting violations," Buddy had drawled, "this is all about the good people of Dillon opening their hearts to take in a family that's down and out." Eric wanted to challenge Buddy, to get him to admit that the only reason they were there was because young Ray Tatum could throw a football, but what was he going to do, tell him to stop the car and walk eighty miles back to Dillon? Besides, you didn't become president of a Booster Club without having a line ready for every circumstance.

Well, there was one circumstance nobody had counted on once Buddy and Eric had parked Buddy's car in the motel lot. As they made their way to the outdoor staircase that would take them up to the Tatum family's room – funny how Buddy didn't even need to ask which room that was – a figure wearing a purple shirt and cap made its way down the stairs. Once he was out of the shadows, Eric immediately recognized Charlie Brecker, head coach of the Arnett Mead Tigers, who at that moment had the same exact facial expression as one of his grandchildren might with his hand caught in the cookie jar. The Tigers and the Panthers had been rivals for as long as anyone could remember, with all the antics on and off the field that entailed, and to top it all off, they were playing each other in less than two weeks.

"Hi Charlie," Eric said, without making an effort to smile.

"Hi guys," Brecker breathed out a reply and quickly shuffled off to his car. Buddy leaned over towards Eric and said softly "I think you get the picture now." What was that supposed to mean?

Up in the Tatum family's room, the scene was set. Buddy knocked on the door and it was opened wordlessly by a black man with a shaved head, a mustache, and a beer belly.

"We're here," Buddy said.

"You and everybody else," the man said.

"Mr. Tatum? I'm Coach Taylor from Dillon," Eric said with his hand out. The other man shook Eric's hand and his own head at the same time. "Mr. Tatum's over there," he said, tilting his head towards a man in his forties who was sitting on the bed watching television with an uneasy expression on his face. The woman standing at the back next to the bathroom door had to be Mrs. Tatum, while their son was sitting at a table wearing an unbuttoned shirt and a T-shirt under it. The other man said "I'm Leonard Maddox and I'm a friend of the family, kind of looking out for their interests," and gestured to Eric and Buddy to sit down. Buddy greeted everyone before he sat down, addressing the Tatums as "Richard" and "Carmella", and greeting the young man with "Voodoo, how ya been, son?" No reply came, just a dark look and half a nod.

"You can see what this is about," Maddox began without even looking at the Tatum family. "This is a family that's lost everything in the hurricane and has been bouncing from place to place ever since."

"Well, we can do somethin' about that," Buddy went into full-on salesman mode. "Dillon is a town where people have a lotta heart. It's a good place to call home. We can do housing, we can do employment. Might even be able to put together a fund, to help a family get back on its feet."

"Can you guarantee he'll be starting?" Maddox asked. No pretense of negotiating the best deal for the family, only for the quarterback.

"Sure," Buddy said, spreading his hands out.

"Actually, Buddy," Eric cut in for the first time, "I've got a problem with that." Maddox swiveled his head to look over in his direction. "Starting jobs aren't handed out in motel rooms, they're earned on the field." Eric turned to look at Voodoo. "From what I hear, it sounds like you want to go all the way."

"I am going all the way," Voodoo replied, holding his eyes.

"Well, then you need to be on the number one team in Texas," Eric added. "And not only that, you need to fit into that team. Your representation can work out any kind of deal for you, but the fact is, it's all going to come down to the effort you're ready to put in."

"I think I can handle that, Coach," Voodoo said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And if you didn't think I could, you wouldn't be here right now."

"Well, if you want to go play for Arnett Mead, go right ahead," Eric said, "They're gonna have a short season. And they might not remember you and your folks once it's over." Then he stood up to indicate that as least as far as he was concerned, this meeting was over. Then he turned to the young man's parents. "Mr. Tatum, Mrs. Tatum, I wish you all the best," he said and then walked back out of the room, followed by Buddy, who was shaking his head. Nobody got up to see them out.

%%%

During Monday lunch period, Matt Saracen knocked on the door to Tami's office even though it was wide open. She quickly put aside her sandwich and waved him in.

"Mrs. Taylor," Matt began in a hesitant voice, "I need to drop pre-calculus so I can go to morning practices. Can't afford to miss them now that I'm playing."

"OK," she replied, "When are you going to take it though?" He answered that he'd take it next semester. As long as he made sure he would, Tami said she was fine with it, and proceeded to rummage through her desk drawer for drop cards.

"How have you been doing, Matt?" she asked. After all, this was her job, to provide guidance.

"We'll do better for our next game," Matt replied with his head slightly bowed.

"I'm not talking about the football team," Tami put one hand forward. "For that, I could have asked Coach, after all I am married to the man." This made both of them chuckle slightly. "I'm asking about you, Matthew Joel Saracen, how are you doing?"

He ducked his head again. "I'm okay, Mrs. Taylor," he said, "Grandma's going through a good spell for now."

"What about the bad spells?" Tami countered, "What are they like?"

"No big deal," the young man shrugged his shoulders. "She gets a little loopy sometime, especially if she forgets to take her pills, but okay, I mean, she's just Grandma."

"That's a lot of responsibility to have on your shoulders at fifteen," Tami pointed out. "Sometimes just football is enough of a job for y' all. Especially in this town."

"Well, I hope I can keep playing," Matt said. "I heard they're trying to bring in this Katrina refugee kid, some quarterback. He's supposed to be real good."

Tami couldn't help blinking. "I don't know what's going to happen with that." Eric hadn't been very talkative after getting back from his road trip with Buddy Garrity.

"Right. Well, I gotta go," Matt said and moved to leave.

"Any time you need to talk about something, you know where to find me," Tami said to his retreating profile. She said that to the students twenty times a week on average. He acknowledged that with a nod and hurried down the hall.

%%%

Right after dinner, a couple of minutes after Eric had switched on the TV and was getting himself a drink, Tami tried to talk to him about Matt.

"Yeah, well, maybe I ought to go over to his house with some Ovaltine and candy and read him a bedtime story," was his reaction. Tami tried to tell him how a little compassion towards a young man in his position couldn't hurt – after all, she'd seen how Eric cared for these boys that he coached, seen him go more than the extra mile for them so many times – but he talked right over her.

"I got everyone in this damn town tellin' me how to do my job, and the one thing these kids don't need is compassion."

"Dad, Mom, watch a second," Julie cut in, pointing at the TV. Some reporter from the local news channel was interviewing Smash Williams.

"Of course this ain't the same team like it was with Street in there," Smash was saying. "But we can't get him back, and somebody's got to think up a game plan for us without 'im."

"Are you saying that you don't think Coach Taylor has figured out what to do yet?" the reporter asked.

Smash laughed. "Now you gonna get me in trouble. Me and the guys, we're just sayin' that the team's got to come together and win some games. Last Friday – didn't work out for us."

Eric's face froze for a couple of seconds.

"Eric, don't take it that way," Tami said, "He's just a kid shooting off his mouth."

Eric took his cell phone off the desk. "If I don't do this now, they're gonna run right over me. And where's that leave us?" He punched in a few numbers and said "Mac, get the team together. Field house in half an hour. No excuses from anybody," followed by a few more instructions. Then he flipped through the Panthers' roster and went to get his coaching jacket. Tami and Julie could only watch as he went out the door saying no more than "Be back in a couple hours. Love 'ya both."

%%%

Smash Williams lived on the south side of Dillon, in a narrow wooden two-story house on Wilburn Street. About a quarter of the lots around the neighborhood were empty, and there weren't a whole lot of fences. South and east were the lower-income parts of town, where the city's paving trucks only came by at election time. Eric parked his car a block away, next to a yard full of overgrown weeds. He walked up to the Williams family's front porch and noticed that Smash's car was parked across the street. No car in front of the house; Mrs. Williams was probably at work. He could hear some sort of rap music playing inside. Right before knocking on the door – he didn't see a doorbell anywhere – he took a look at the sky. Dark clouds were gathering fast. That fit in perfectly with his plans.

"Somebody get that!" Smash's voice could be heard from inside the house. No footsteps though. Eric thought about flipping the mail slot on the door a few times to get Smash's attention, but first he tried the doorknob. Surprisingly, the door was unlocked. Eric took a few purposeful steps and came face to face with his running back. Smash froze once he saw him.

"You got two minutes, Brian." Eric said in the same voice he used to conduct drills. "Get your running shoes on, we're going for a ride."

The players all crowded into the team bus outside the field house right when the rain started to fall. The thunder and lightning announced that there was more coming. Eric had told the driver to drop them off at Redfern Creek, right below the steepest part of the hill. Fortunately, the players had the good sense to stay quiet during the ride. By the time the bus arrived, the rain was coming down in sheets. Eric got out of the bus first, followed by all the assistant coaches in their jackets and caps. No raincoats or umbrellas allowed, by his orders.

"Wind sprints, up and down the hill! Get goin' now!" he barked once most of the players were off the bus. "Wind sprints up and down the hill, top speed, no stoppin', go, go, go!" He'd had to run plenty of those in his younger days. The worst of all were the ones his father made him run at midnight if he ever fumbled, threw an interception, or got sacked more than once in a game. Never less than fifty of them, and ten more if he ever complained.

"You think you're champions just because you wear the Panther uniform? You're wrong!" Coach Taylor shouted at his players. He noticed that center Bradley Cole was vomiting into the water and waved his arms to make sure everyone kept running. "You think you're champions 'cause they give you a piece of pie at the diner? You're wrong! Champions never complain. Champions never quit. Champions always give two hundred percent! Nobody's a champion until that last game's scoreboard says they are and the whistle's blown." The rain kept falling and the players kept running.

"Coach, I think they've had enough," Coach Crowley said.

"I'll say when they've had enough," Eric replied and waved for the players to keep running. Once Smash Williams came back down the hill, Eric looked right at him so hard that it was impossible for him not to notice. _You got us here, Williams_, Eric thought, _now it's time for you to man up and figure out how to get us out of here_. _Show me you've learned something._

"Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose!" Williams croaked out the team motto. Then Matt Saracen, who had just rounded the bend at the top, shouted it back. "Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose!" Then all the players were shouting it. "Go, go, go!" Crowley yelled to keep them going.

"Okay, run one more and we're going back." Taylor said after another ten minutes. There was still one thing he had left to do.

When the team bus was back outside the field house, Eric tapped Tim Riggins on the forearm to stop him before he could go into the locker room and change.

"What happened to Jason Street was not your fault, son," Eric looked his fullback in the eye. "You were on the other side of the field, thirty yards away. There's nothing you could've done to keep it from happening. I want you to quit beating yourself up about it."

"Okay, Coach." Tim moved his wet hair away from his eyes but didn't nod.

"You owe me a practice," Coach said. Tim nodded this time. The other players were moving around them as they headed into the field house. Some of them were already pulling off their wet shirts. Tim took half a step in that direction, but Coach stopped him. "How about you walk back from here and we call it even." Riggins stared at him for a second and then nodded his head wordlessly and walked off. Eric stood outside for a few more minutes to make sure Tim didn't try to sneak back in without being noticed, but Tim walked straight on in the right direction. _I hope I got through to him this time__**, **_Coach thought once the young man was out of sight. It wasn't like he didn't already have enough headaches.


	6. In Walks the Enemy

**Not Everyone Likes Football**

**Chapter 6**: In Walks the Enemy

Tami Taylor had just started an ordinary day at work. In the car, Eric had left Panther Radio on again in spite of Julie's complaints, Brendan had asked again whether he could start driving them a few times, and when Tami offered to sing, both of the kids groaned and Eric had smiled and said "Another time when it's just us, Tami." She could tell from the way he smiled when he said it that he was actually entertaining the idea. After all, ten years in the church choir – at her mother's insistence, and in spite of her own protests – had been good for her voice.

After a couple of routine meetings with students – no drastic problems there, fortunately – one science teacher who wanted to give her a heads-up about a student who'd seemed rather distracted in class lately, and a quick cup of coffee, Tami saw a black father and son, probably a new student, standing tentatively outside her office and whispering to each other pretty intensely. They were both more formally dressed than Tami was used to seeing: the father, a stocky clean-shaven man around forty years old, was wearing a white pressed long-sleeved button-down shirt, a black cotton vest, and black pants that weren't jeans, and the son, long-limbed with collar-length hair, was wearing a burgundy short-sleeved shirt tucked into a pair of pants that looked like it came from a suit. In Tami's parents' time, people would have said they were wearing church clothes. Nowadays, a job interview might come to mind. Tami appreciated it when people made an effort to dress nicely, rather than wear the same old jeans and cowboy boots and shirts hanging out. She made a point of telling Eric how handsome he looked most Sundays when they went to church, in hope that he would wear one of his suits more often and not just when it was required.

Tami stood up and decided to approach them. "Hi, how can I help you?" The father and son stopped whispering to each other and looked up at her. "I'm Tami Taylor, the guidance counselor. Is this about registering a new student?" She held out her hand with a smile, and father and son took turns shaking hands with her before saying anything.

"Well, it is that, but it's a bit more than that too," the father said in a gravelly voice. He and his son exchanged a quick, nervous glance. "I'm Grant Chandler, from Westerby, and this is my son Quinn."

Chandler, from Westerby. Wait a second, that meant... as though he had read her thoughts, Quinn nodded and said "That's right, Ms. Taylor. I'm the guy who picked off Jason Street's throw and made him lose his legs."

Hold off. Don't react yet until you've got the whole story. "So what brings you here?" Tami gestured towards her desk. "Let's sit down and you can tell me about this." The Chandlers both moved slowly, as though they weren't quite sure they wanted to be there. Maybe they didn't.

"Dad, you want to tell her, or should I?" Quinn spoke up. After his father's encouragement, he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. "I stopped playing football after I found out what happened to your guy. Once I got over my concussion, too. Now the whole town, the whole school, they all hate me. Even if I just look at the football field, I keep seeing Street going down. And almost nobody gets that, they all think I'm wimping out on the team. So my locker gets broken into every day, my stuff gets stolen or burned, our house gets all kinds of stuff thrown at it and painted on the walls."

"Have you talked with the guidance counselor at Westerby?" Tami asked.

"Sure did, more than once," Quinn said. "She's on their side. Know what she told me? 'They've got a right to feel angry, you're letting them down.' And when I told her about what's happening, she lectured me about how she was in the first integrated class in her own high school and back then the National Guard had to make sure she and the other black students were allowed in. 'Where would we be now if we'd been scared and quit?' She expects me to just take it all and let it blow over, but that's not happening."

"The problem is," Tami said, "if you're living in another town..."

"We won't be pretty soon." Mr. Chandler cut in. "The place we rent, it's been vandalized twice in the last week. Landlord said we're not worth the money he's gonna need to pay in repairs, so he gave us til the end of the month to leave. So if there's someplace we could find to live, that'd make us zoned for this school. Anything you might now about that, we'd appreciate the help. At least my crew chief's a decent guy and he's keeping me on the job. I work construction, and a lot of the sites are in different towns in the area."

"What made you choose here though?" Tami asked, not sure whether she was actually asking the father or the son. "There are other schools closer to you."

"We talked to them." Quinn's voice was starting to sound annoyed. "They know I was all-conference last year, so they told me if I wasn't going to play for them I could forget it. And then..." The way the young man's voice seized up slightly made it clear that he was about to explain the important part.

"Tell her, son," Quinn's father said softly. "Just like you told me." He clapped his son on the shoulder.

"I need to meet Jason Street." Quinn got the words out practically all bunched together. "I want to put some back, Ms. Taylor, pay it forward, whatever they call it. I want to learn how to work in rehab, physical therapy. I know I can't get Street his legs back, but maybe – if I can help other people down the line, or work towards that – maybe I can start sleeping normal at night instead of seein' the same play over and over again. Maybe if I can tell him my side, if he won't hate me..."

"Jason won't hate you, Quinn," Tami reached across the desk and put her hand on his. "I've known him since he was seven. He's a fine young man and hate is something he just doesn't do."

"I heard he had a scholarship to Notre Dame lined up." Quinn was shaking his head. "I lost him that. I was just trying to score, run it back, run through the tackle, win us the game. If I'd just slipped and gone down, or run out of bounds or somebody else got to me first... "

"You can't change that." Mr. Chandler said.

"I know, Dad," Quinn turned back to look at his father for a moment and then looked at Tami again. She was still holding his hand. "What's the best I can do here? That's what I'm tryin' to find."

"Your son's got a lot of heart, Mr. Chandler." Tami said.

"He's a good boy," Mr. Chandler said. Hadn't Eric said that about Jason? "Never given me a minute's trouble. 'Course it's been just him and me for the last eleven years. My wife split on us and moved to Atlanta; she's married to a guy who ministers in the projects there." He tried to sound nonchalant about it, but Tami could hear a twinge of pain in his voice.

"Ms. Taylor," Quinn said, slowly taking his hand from hers, "there's one thing I'm worried about here. What's the football team gonna think? Last thing I need is a bunch of Panthers tryin' to get back at me for Street."

"Mr. Taylor is their coach, son," his father said.

"That's right," Tami said. "I'll talk to him about it for sure, and probably to some of the players as well. Harassment is not something I want happening at this school. First, though, I think we need to bring my son into this. Let me find his schedule on here and call him in."

%%%

"What's up, Mom?" Brendan shuffled in a few minutes later with his backpack still in his hands. Tami had told his teacher to make sure he brought it. "Did something happen to Julie?"

"No, Julie's fine," Tami told him, which made him release his breath quickly. "I've got a job for you. First, you need to meet Mr. Chandler and Quinn from Westerby."

Brendan looked like something didn't quite make sense to him, but he shook hands with the Chandlers and then turned a pointed look to his mother. Tami took a deep breath and then said to the Chandlers "My son Brendan is a junior, just like you, Quinn. I can guarantee you that more than anyone else in Dillon, he's completely ready to stand up for someone's right _not _to play football."

Mr. Chandler nodded, but Quinn didn't show any reaction. Brendan rubbed the palm of his hand over his forehead and said "Does this have anything to do with Jason and how he got hurt?"

"You've got a smart son, Ms. Taylor," Mr. Chandler said. Then he looked at Brendan and said "It sure does. Maybe I should let my boy tell you about it first."

Quinn told them. He'd been concussed on the same play, so everything kept fading in and out on him for hours. And then the headaches and nightmares started: sometimes the play kept repeating itself, sometimes Jason Street got back up and Quinn was the one who couldn't walk again, sometimes he was punished by his coaches or attacked by the Panthers. He'd heard that Street was paralyzed, and he couldn't keep playing football with that knowledge, and only one or two assistant coaches and players understood that. When Quinn went to tell his coaches that he wasn't going to play any more, Marcus Tate, his former best friend on the team, had just glared at him and said "You got no balls, Chandler. I don't want to know you any more." Two days after that, when his father left at six-thirty to go to work, someone had spray-painted "NO GUTS" over the entire front of their house. Not to forget getting shoved or sworn at in the hallways or finding any books or papers in his locker burned to ashes.

"You see these, Brendan?" Tami took her car keys out of her purse and held them up. "I need you to drive Quinn to the rehab center to meet Jason. Make sure your phone is on, because you or Jason might have to do something more. Quinn is going to be enrolling here, so I'm putting you in charge of making sure he's safe from the football players."

"I'll do what I can, Mom," Brendan nodded, "but I can't be everywhere. What's Dad going to think about this?"

"You let me handle that," Tami said firmly. "Your job is to bring Quinn and Jason together, to give Quinn the chance to talk with him that he needs, and to have his back here at school. Talk to Jay Greer, talk to Smash or anyone else, make sure the word is out that you're sticking up for him. Are you with me?"

"They're not scared of me." Brendan looked his mother in the eyes. "Remember how Tim Riggins almost took me on right in the hospital?"

"You got him to back down though." Tami looked right back at her son. "Bullies are cowards deep down. I know how you'd get if somebody tried to hurt Julie or me. Just dial that up and they should be scared of you if they've got a brain in their head. This is your chance to support what you believe in. I need you to be my enforcer, and of course nobody ever heard me say that."

Tami stood up and gave Brendan the keys, with a quick pat on the back. Meanwhile the Chandlers held a whispered discussion, which ended with Quinn nodding twice and turning to Tami and Brendan to say "I'm ready to go any time you are."

"Then let's go, Quinn," Brendan said. "Welcome to Nutjob Town."

"Drive carefully, Brendan." Tami watched them walk out to the car and then started to wrack her brain for possibilities to suggest to Mr. Chandler about housing in Dillon. Ironic that a few days ago, as Eric had told her, Buddy Garrity had offered employment and housing to the Tatum family if their son would come play quarterback for the Panthers. After that, she was going to have to figure out which Panthers to talk to, and how to bring this up with her own husband.

%%%

"What kind of music do you like?" Brendan asked Quinn as they settled into the car. "My dad always puts on Panther Radio, and we are not listening to that, no way on Earth or Mars, I'm sick of it. My best friend Jay's from Jamaica and he lends me reggae CD's, but I don't have any on me right now. I figure you don't want Mexican music either, even though I like it. Jazz or blues are fine too."

Quinn mentioned a couple of radio stations that he listened to. Brendan just shrugged to indicate he was all right with them. Quinn found one of the stations he wanted and then he came out with "How come you don't play football when your dad's a coach?"

"Everybody asks me that," Brendan said. "They even talk about it on the frickin' radio, use it to bad-mouth Dad. But I guess you deserve the real answer." So he told Quinn the whole story about the book he'd read, the agreement he'd reached with his parents years ago, other sports he preferred, and how bad eyesight was an easy excuse.

"Cool," Quinn said. Then he started asking about Jason, what kind of guy he was before his accident, how long Brendan knew him, how his rehab was going. Along the way, he told Brendan that he'd lived his whole life in Westerby, and even though he wasn't close to his mother, he got along with his grandparents and his cousins from both sides of the family, those who were still in the area. He also had family in Houston.

"I was named after my grandfather, my dad's dad," Brendan said after a couple of minutes' silence, "but I never met the guy. He didn't like my mom at all, and when my dad told him I'd been born and what my name was, he started to get on Dad's case like he always did, whether it was for marrying Mom or not making it to the NFL, and he had a heart attack right there in his living room."

By then Brendan had driven them to the rehab center. He found a parking space and then the two young men got out, Quinn more slowly than Brendan. "You really think this is a good idea?" he asked.

"Beats getting run out of Westerby." Brendan gave him a slow nod. "You made it this far, we might as well go through with it."

The receptionist recognized Brendan from other times that he'd visited, waved to him, and barely gave Quinn a second glance. She probably figured he was a friend of Brendan's. They took the elevator up to the second floor, where Jason was sharing a room with a snarky fellow quadriplegic in his late twenties named Herc.

"Holy God," Jason said from his wheelchair when he saw Quinn. "I've seen you in my nightmares a hundred times, except usually you don't have a face."

"Well, now you can tell I got one," Quinn said to him from six feet away. "Got a name too, Quinn Chandler. If you want to hate me, Street, I can live with it, but I was just tryin' to take the ball to the house the same way you or Dolia would've done against me. I lost you your legs and believe me, man, if I could I'd give you mine so you could play college ball and live the rest of your life like you meant to before all this shit happened, except they'd probably look weird as hell on you."

"Yeah." Jason actually cracked a smile. "A white guy with black legs, I'd look like some kind of bionic monster."

Quinn continued. "Listen, man, I don't know what you feel about me, but I gotta recognize that your whole life's different now 'cause we knocked into each other and so whatever you wanna think about me's your right. But I tell you one thing, I've decided that I'm gonna learn how to work like the people here, do therapy and rehab on more folks who got hurt like you did, 'n have that as my life's work. If you can't stand the sight of me – and I can't talk against that if you do, Street – I'll just have to find some other place to go to learn that, 'cause even if I can't do a thing for you, I'm down to do what I can for somebody. I need to."

Jason looked straight at him, focused like he was quarterbacking in the Super Bowl. "You really mean it."

"Sure do." Quinn said. "I wouldn't have quit football and wouldn't be gettin' my dad and me run out of our hometown, only town I've ever lived in, if I didn't."

"Damn." Jason said, which surprised Brendan, because the Jason Street he knew almost never swore. "My best friend Tim, my best friend for ten years – he only came by here once, and that's 'cause I told him to. You're the guy who got me here, and you came off your own bat." He held out his right hand, which looked different now, with his fingers closed halfway and kind of scrunched together. "Can you take two steps here to shake, Chandler, or you need me to wheel myself over?"

Quinn took the two steps and they shook hands. Then he bent down and put his arm over Jason's shoulder. "You got me in your corner, Street." Quinn said. "You need any work done on your place, refits, stuff like that, my dad can fix it. It's his job."

"I appreciate that, bro," Jason said, and also gave Quinn a brotherly tap on the shoulder. Then he turned to Brendan, who'd been standing against the wall watching everything happen. "How come you're in on this, Brendan? Did your parents send you?"

Brendan told Jason how things had gone so far. "Mom got me involved when Quinn and his dad walked into her office. I don't know what Dad thinks, but I figure Mom can work on him. There anyplace near here that I can get us all a burger or something? It's a bit far for me to run back to town and get you an Aztec, Jay, but we can save that for next time."

"Did someone say burgers?" Herc called out as he wheeled himself into the room. "If we got a bro-fest goin', I want in. Hospital food is for sick people, and us movement-challenged quad folks are damaged or disabled, not sick."

"There's your first lesson, Quinn," Jason said. "Patient's always right, especially when he's hungry."

%%%

"No way at all, Mrs. Taylor," Bradley Cole, the redheaded center, said to Tami. "I'm o-line. Our job was to protect Street on every single play, and we're supposed to let the guy who got him paralyzed walk around here like nothing happened? It's disrespectful to the team, and to our quarterback."

"Why's he got to come here, the Chandler kid?" Greg Budden added. "Couldn't he go to some other school? If he's got trouble in his town, no need to make that our problem."

"Let me be clear with you on this," Tami said, trying to make her voice sound more authoritative and less frustrated or angry. "Quinn Chandler is going to be a student here, that's not up for negotiation. And assault of any student is cause for one week's suspension and getting dropped from the team."

"Hold on, Mrs. T," Smash Williams cut in. "None of us would ever mean a guy no harm. Thing is, we can't control what anybody else might get it into their head to do. There's fifty Panthers on the team, not counting JV."

"You're captains," Tami said. "Other players are supposed to listen to you. They do on the field."

"That's different," Greg muttered.

"Why exactly is it different?" Tami countered.

"Just is," Greg shrugged. "On the field is on the field, off the field is different."

"You're all forgetting one thing," Tami raised a finger. "On the field or off the field, you're Dillon High School students. You represent this school and you're a part of it. That means you're answerable to the principal, and through her, to me."

"This is personal." Bradley said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Jason Street is – was, since he can't play any more, but is 'cause we care about him – our QB. He was on his way to go pro. Somebody wrecked that. Whether Chandler meant to or didn't, that's somethin' else. Doesn't mean we have to make him our friend or like him being here." And as though he had read the thoughts right out of her brain, he went on: "And with all due respect, Mrs. Taylor, we know Coach is your husband, so even if he tells us something about this, we'll know it's really coming from you and not from the team."

If Tami were a judge, she would have ordered Bradley Cole in contempt of court for his attitude, but she couldn't do that. Then came one of those comic-book moments, like a lightbulb had lit up right over Smash Williams' head.

"What if we hear it from Street himself?" he asked. "If Street tells us that he's okay with this guy coming to our school, then we got to listen to him. If Six told you that, Brad, would that be a way outta this?" Now why hadn't she suggested that first, Tami wondered. Well, obviously because she'd expected these boys to have listened to her straightaway.

"It's the only way," the center said. "I gotta hear it from him. Nobody telling me he said it. It's gotta be Jason Street, in his own voice."

"Same goes for me," Budden added in a low voice.

"In that case," Tami said, "Y' all better get back to class now. I can't say I'm pleased with your attitudes, but one way or another, this issue is going to get settled and Quinn Chandler is coming here tomorrow. You're dismissed." All three of them filed out quickly.

Now it was time to call Eric – and after that, she'd have to call Brendan. It was a good thing that being guidance counselor allowed her to pull her son out of class. Actually, maybe it was a better idea to take an aspirin first, because if Tami didn't have a headache yet, she would for sure by the end of the day.

%%%

"Tami, I wish you hadn't gone over my head on this," Eric said softly.

Well, that was one good sign. He said "I wish you hadn't" and not "why on Earth did you?". A second good sign was that he'd actually sat down in front of her and wasn't pacing around like a caged animal. Or raising his voice, as Tami had expected him to do.

"I'm getting my authority over the team undermined from all directions," Eric went on. "My assistants saw the tape on Voodoo Tatum before I did. Tim Riggins walked out of practice. Smash got himself on TV, and you know what I had to do to fix that. If you'd come to me on this first, Cole and those other guys would've taken an order from me, rather than thinking it was from you."

Tami sighed. "Eric, I didn't consider this a football issue. It's a school issue, a student safety issue. Besides, being on the football team doesn't give any student the right not to listen to me. Or to you."

"It is a football issue, though," Eric said. "It's because these guys are on the football team that they feel they gotta have Jason's back. And because this other kid ran into Jason and he got paralyzed, that was football too."

Tami was getting hot under her nonexistent collar. "Eric, football does not give these kids the right to disobey the school rules or school officials. Football is not supposed to be the almighty king of this school. It's not an excuse for everything."

"I know that, Tami," Eric said, scrunching the bill of his cap with both hands in frustration. "The problem is that football's got a code of its own, and most of these players would rather die than feel they're breaking it. That's just what we've got to work with."

"OK, then," Tami said, "crack this code for me and tell me how you and I can get it across to these Panthers that if they jump Quinn Chandler as some kind of payback for Jason, they are being bad teammates. Not to mention being bad people."

"We're painted into a corner here," Eric said, removing his cap and smoothing over his hair. "Only Jason can fix it now. They'll listen to him."

"You've got speakerphone in your office over at the field house, right?" Tami asked her husband. After he nodded, she continued. "I sent Brendan over to the rehab center to introduce Quinn and Jason."

"Take everything head-on," Eric said firmly. "That's the Tami Hayes I married. So you want me to go over to my office and talk to Jason?"

"Oh no you don't," Tami shook her head and ignored Eric's sudden pout. "Let's call Brendan first from right here, and then we'll have him put Jason on. We do this together, here and now."

After eighteen years of marriage, Tami could read Eric's face quicker than her favorite book. _I'll go along with this, honey, but you owe me one,_ it read right now. She smiled back at him. Either blueberry pie or a good backrub would do the trick. Or why not both, that would put him into a mood to return the favor.

%%%

The Dillon Panthers were walking into the locker room to change for practice when the phone rang in Eric's office. With some help from Andy, who'd been working part-time as a sound technician for the last couple of years, Jason Street's voice went through to the loudspeakers, clear as though he was right there with everyone.

"Hey Panthers, I want y' all to listen up," Jason said. From the window of his office, Eric saw how every single Panther stopped whatever he was doing immediately and looked up at the loudspeakers. "This is Jason, Street, Six, your quarterback talking. Even though I'm not playing any more, is there anyone in there who's stopped feeling that I'm your QB, anyone who thinks he's not Jason Street's teammate any more?" A mixture of "No"'s and "Hell No"'s sounded out from the room, with the loudest voices coming from the guys who played on offense.

Then Jason started talking to individual players. "Tony." - that meant Tony Dolia, the wide receiver who wore number 1 - "If we were in the huddle and I told you to run a six-yard slant, double hitch, and switch to the opposite post, would you do it?"

"I would, QB," Dolia said from the far side of the locker room.

"Tim." Now Street was talking to his best friend. "If I told you to take the snap from Bradley and then lateral to Smash, would you do it?"

"Course, Six," Riggins said from just below the loudspeaker. "I did that last year against South Millbank. Remember, guys? We made it 21-7 at the half." A cheer from several players confirmed the memory.

"Fifty-six." That meant Bradley Cole. "If I told you to snap the ball halfway off-center and block Arnett Mead's nose tackle into the next county, you'd do that for me, right?"

"Yeah," Cole said with a smile on his face.

"If any of you guys had the ball, you'd try to take it to the house, whatever it took, right?" Jason went on. "That's what Quinn Chandler was trying to do when he ran into me." After a couple of seconds, Jason called on one more player. "Reyes, you there?"

"Right here," strong safety Bobby Reyes answered.

"What do you do when you get the ball, if you pick off a pass or scoop up a fumble and you´re still standing up?" Jason asked.

"Try to run it back."

"OK." Jason said. "I want every single one of you to know, what happened to me was an accident. If I'd been the one with the ball, I would've been running into Chandler just as hard as he ran into me. You can't blame a guy for wanting and trying to win for his team. I talked to Chandler today, he came here to see me at the rehab center, and he's a solid guy. He's going to be working with me on my rehab, and he's going to be going to school there at Dillon. His hit on me was hard but it wasn't dirty – and what happened to me wasn't his fault any more than it was any of yours. Quinn Chandler is not my enemy. If you still have any respect for me as your teammate and your quarterback, you'll respect him too. If anyone tries to get back at him for me getting paralyzed, I don't want to know you, you don't deserve to call yourself a Panther. Anybody who tries to get revenge on Chandler is scum in my book. You heard me there, Panthers?" A bunch of voices answered back.

"I know I can't practice or play with y' all any more," Jason said, "but I want you to play for Matt Saracen just the same, just as hard as you did when I was in there. He's your QB1 now. See ya at the team barbecue this weekend." The what? Eric's hands rushed through his hair. Oh, right, another tradition, the coach was supposed to host all the players at his own house in the team's first bye week. He was going to have to talk to Tami about that. "Lemme hear it from you 'fore I get back to my exercises. Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose!"

All the Panthers repeated the team motto. "You heard me," Jason said. "So don't lose." And then he hung up. Inside his office, Eric let out a deep breath. He saw Andy give him a silent handclap in the hall. Then he came out of his office and addressed the team.

"Gentlemen," he said, "you just heard from your quarterback. If anyone here is enough of a fool to disrespect his wishes, believe me, just getting dropped from the team is the best thing that can happen to you. Now get out on that field there and let's have one hell of a practice. Remember Jason, and clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose!"

A group of players echoed the motto back to him. Then everyone picked up on it. Then the Panthers changed into their practice clothes more quickly than usual, and some of them actually ran from the locker room to the field. Eric ordered them into their first running drills. Why hadn't he remembered about that team barbecue though? All these things to keep straight, it was enough to make a man want a beer.


	7. Undercurrents

**Not Everyone Likes Football**

**Chapter 7**: Undercurrents

Brendan didn't like bicycling on windy days. Especially if they were like that day, when the wind came after a long dry spell and stirred up all the dust that had been gathering. A few years ago he would have jumped at the chance to ride his bike to school on his own and avoid listening to Panther Radio. Now, though, that he'd managed 60 miles in a day more than once, a ride to school was routine, no more of a challenge than walking around the block. The wind just made it worse, as the dust got into his eyes and nose and mouth. He'd fought the wind on his rides before, but this was wind plus ten days' worth of dust. Still, there was a reason for it: his mother had told him that it would be a good idea if he met Quinn Chandler early just to help him get used to his new school. Jason Street's speech to his former teammates had definitely made an impression, but Tami Taylor trusted most football players as far as she could throw them, which she couldn't actually do. So she'd sent Brendan on this new mission just to make sure, and he'd called in Jay Greer, who was supposed to show up in another ten minutes.

Quinn was already waiting for him in front of the school. "What's up," Quinn said to him once Brendan stopped his bike right in front of him.

"Dusty as the desert," Brendan grumbled. "Let me lock up a sec and I'll be right there." After Quinn gave him a quick nod, Brendan locked up his bicycle quickly and headed over to meet him.

"Have you and your dad had any luck finding a place to live in Dillon?" Brendan asked the question his mom had reminded him to ask.

"Yeah, we lucked out, actually," Quinn said with a smile. "Dad met this guy who runs a barbecue place on the east side of town, Ray's, and he said he'll rent us a couple of rooms over it if I work there on weekends and Dad helps out with repairs."

"I haven't ever eaten there," Brendan said, "but it sounds like a good deal."

"How come?" Quinn's expression changed immediately. "Too good to visit the black side of town?"

"Are you kidding me, Quinn?" Brendan threw his arms back. "I told you yesterday, my best friend is black, Jay Greer. He should be here in a minute or so. You can ask him about me if you want. It's just that when I go out on a ride, I like to get out of town, go as far away as I can, change the scenery around me. Exploring the town was what I did my first few months here, I'm past that now. 'Sides, I don't usually eat much when I'm riding. Something eating you here or what?"

"Yeah, sorry, man," Quinn shook his head. "Somebody from Westerby found out we're leaving and left us a bit of a going-away present overnight." In the form of a broken window, Quinn told him, more spray paint on the walls, and a smelly bag with a note attached to it reading "Good riddance, chickenshit."

"Twisted fuckers." Brendan had been taught not to swear in front of his family, but they weren't there to hear him now. "You're better off without 'em."

"Hope they don't come here," Quinn said, and the edge came back into his voice. "And can you guarantee folks around here are any less twisted?"

Before Brendan could provide any kind of answer, Jay had walked over and join them. He stood off to one side from Brendan and gave him a military salute, saying "Sergeant Taylor, Sir, Soldier Greer here reporting for Operation Welcome New Guy." Then his voice turned normal as he turned to Quinn and said "New Guy must be you. I'm Jay. Welcome to town, bro," and put out his hand. He and Quinn shook quickly before Brendan could object to being called "Sergeant".

"You thinkin' of goin' into the Army after school, Jay?" Quinn asked him. Jay replied that he'd been thinking about the GI Bill to pay for college, if they'd let him serve, because his citizenship application was still being processed. When Brendan heard Quinn start asking Jay some of the same questions he'd been asked himself when they first met, he was starting to feel like he'd vanished. And then when Jay took charge of acting as Quinn's tour guide on his own, with no more than "I got this, B, catch ya later" to Brendan, he decided to do just that, vanish and see if anyone would notice. Well, not quite vanish, just head for his first class of the day twenty minutes early. The classroom door wasn't open yet, of course, so he just had to stand out there in the hall and wait. He frowned. One more case of no good deed going unpunished.

He'd think the same thought again a few hours later at lunchtime, when he found Jay, Quinn, and Smash Williams engrossed in a conversation about the merits of hip-hop versus jazz versus reggae. Odd man was out again, he guessed – so since Julie was by herself, he had lunch with her. That was their unspoken agreement: if either one of them was with friends, the other one stayed away unless there was an urgent reason why they needed to talk. If they were by themselves, they could find each other if they felt like it.

"Lose a friend again, big guy?" Julie asked him in a soft voice. She'd followed his gaze to the other table.

"Sure looks like it." he replied. "At least it looks like the football team won't need me to clobber them. Right now, I'm starting to feel that's a bit of a shame."

"Another punching bag and weights evening?" Julie gave him half a smile. She knew his tactics for working off frustration too well. In fact, she'd suggested to him once that he should make the garage his room, with all the equipment he'd piled in there and the time he spent there.

"Right again." He shook his head and then leaned over towards his sister. "I want out of small town Texas and into the rest of the world so bad I can almost taste it. The irony is, one of the few things I like about here is the food."

"Maybe we should open a restaurant somewhere in another time zone," Julie said and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder. "You man the grill, I'll make the salads."

"Let's practice on our parents first, Julie." he said. "I get quality control on the cheese fries though."

"Dibs on the desserts!" Julie countered. This was how they'd been for all those years moving from one town to another: whenever life didn't feel right, they'd try to find a game to play together, a joke to share. And usually it helped, at least briefly.

* * *

Voodoo Tatum showed up for his first practice on Thursday afternoon. Buddy Garrity brought him ten minutes after practice had started, announcing his presence with a loud "We got ourselves a quarterback", which made Matt Saracen wince visibly and a lot of other players look at each other with baffled expressions. Voodoo was scanning the field and his future teammates and Eric couldn't read his expression, except there was too much swagger in it for his taste.

"Practice started ten minutes ago," he told Voodoo. "You show up on time, not when you feel like it. Four o'clock is when we start, and that means we start work on the field. One minute past that is late."

"OK, Coach," Tatum nodded and gave a dismissive half-wave of his hand. "I was depending on my ride to get here."

"Locker room's that way," Eric pointed it out to the new player. "Jimmy's inside, he'll get you set up with what you need, then come right back out and work with Andy. No time to waste."

Voodoo frowned and walked off in the direction he'd been shown, but not very fast. What did he expect, to be welcomed like a conquering hero? He hadn't conquered anything here yet, except for Buddy Garrity's favor, obviously. Coach Taylor turned back to his players. "That's enough of a break for now," he barked, "get back to your drills!"

Things would have been much easier for Coach Taylor if Voodoo Tatum had shown himself to be an inept quarterback. Then he could have been relegated to backup status or kept off the team. Instead, it was clear that he knew what he was doing: reading defenses, accurate passing, and turning busted plays into successful runs were all part of his skill set. He already had two Louisiana state championship rings to his credit, while Matt Saracen had played only two games so far, less than one and a half. If only Tatum had at least a few ounces of Jason Street's character, it might actually have been enjoyable to work with someone that had his level of talent.

"He's got it together all right," Mac McGill said to him while Voodoo ran a set of plays. "Looks like he ought to start against Arnett Mead."

One day was too soon to be saying things like that, Eric thought. Besides, that was his call and only his to make. So his only reply was "Thank you for your opinion." A few minutes later, he walked over to Matt, who was, to put it kindly, still going through the learning curve and clearly unnerved by Voodoo's arrival, and said to him "Forget about the other guy. Work on being the best quarterback _you _can be. You're my QB1 unless you hear me say different."

"Yes, Sir," Matt said, nodding and kind of swallowing at the same time. To his credit, though, his play seemed to improve during the practice, and he didn't shy away from difficult throws the way inexperienced quarterbacks often did.

After the practice, Eric found McGill in his office, making a bunch of copies. More specifically, sitting in Eric's chair waiting for the copy machine to finish.

"Comfortable in here?" Eric asked him.

"Just puttin' together a copy of the playbook for Voodoo," his offensive coordinator answered.

"Right, well I like to know what's going on in my office," Eric said, "Just like I like to know what's going on with my offense. And I don't like seein' my OC chat up Buddy Garrity like he's on a date."

"What are you thinkin' now, that I want your job?" the older man countered, squaring his shoulders and taking a step forward. "You're damn right I do. Way I see it, you're sittin' in my chair right now. Position coaches become coordinators, coordinators become head coaches. That's the way it's done, and you leapfrogged the system. When Norm – and he was defense – called it quits and moved to California, it was my turn now. So I got a right to be sore. But before you start thinkin' I want the team to fail so I can get that job, these are my boys too and I want them to win just as bad as you do."

"Well, then that's something we can agree on," Eric deadpanned. "And when I got hired, they told me I had full authority to hire any coach or coordinator I wanted, nobody had a guaranteed spot. So there's a reason why I kept you on. Don't prove me wrong here."

McGill nodded, picked up the playbook and the copy, and made his way out without another word. It wasn't really a nod of agreement, though, more like a truce. For the team's sake.

* * *

"Tell me again why we have to do this, Mom," Julie turned to her mother as they both piled about ten different cuts of meat into their shopping cart. Seeing all those chopped bits of dead animals together reminded her of why she'd decided to go vegetarian three years ago. She needed to look at something else.

"Because of your dad's job, you know that," Tami answered in a tone that made it clear she wasn't happy about this either. "At least Coach Crowley was nice enough to stop by my office and tell me how many people I should _really_ expect and give me a rough idea of how much these boys eat."

"Like Brendan after skipping breakfast?" Julie suggested.

"And a fifty-mile bike ride," Tami nodded emphatically as she switched one tray of ribs for another. "Multiply that by sixty players and add at least half of their parents." She placed the tray on top of several others in the cart.

"Ick." Julie said as she tried to figure the amounts of meat that would be necessary. "Mom, I'm going to get sick if I keep looking at all this stuff. Is there something else I can get for us?"

"Sauces, dry rubs, a couple pounds of onions, and peppers, both bell and hot." Her mother looked back at her. "Grab a basket and just come and go bringing me what you can, I need the cart here."

"Thanks, Mom, I'm on it," Julie was relieved to be away from the meat. She rounded the corner and went to the front of the supermarket to find a basket. She picked it up and then heard a boy's voice that sounded vaguely familiar to her say "Hi, Julie."

She turned around and saw Matt Saracen a few feet behind her giving her a slight wave. An older woman who absolutely had to be his grandmother was standing next to him, with an empty shopping cart behind him that he was holding with one hand.

Here in the supermarket Julie had to be a bit more gracious than in the lunch room. Besides, how much trouble could a guy be if he had his grandmother with him? "How are you, Matt?" she said with a bright smile.

"Uh, all right," he said, "Grandma and I are just taking care of this week's shopping. Grandma, this is Julie, Coach Taylor's daughter."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Saracen," Julie said and offered her hand to the older woman, who took it in both of hers and then came out with "Now don't you 'Mrs. Saracen' me, young lady, everybody in Dillon your age that I've met the last ten years just calls me Grandma, so you do it too."

Julie had to laugh at that, although she noticed a bit of an embarrassed blink from Matt. "All right, Grandma." She didn't see her own grandmothers much: her dad's mother lived in Lubbock but she hadn't ever been close to the family for as long as Julie could remember, and her mom's mother had married an Italian man and had moved to Boston with him. It might be weird for Matt to live with a grandmother and no parents around.

Grandma Saracen wasn't one to shy away from talking to near-strangers. "Julie, you tell your daddy that Matt has what it takes to play quarterback for the Panthers, he's just got to keep his feet movin' and learn to get rid of the ball faster. We got a future champion under our roof, I believe in him."

Now Matt's face had turned more than slightly red. "Grandma," he said in a soft voice, "we don't need to bother Julie about that, Coach knows his job." Then he mouthed a quick "sorry" to Julie.

"Oh, no, Matthew, I gotta tell her," Grandma insisted, "Coach Taylor's probably got Buddy Garrity and the boosters bending his ear nonstop, so I got just as much of a right to speak my own mind! Just believe in yourself, young fella, and you'll show 'em all that you can play." Then she hugged her grandson warmly.

Matt looked torn between being embarrassed at his grandmother's outspokenness and affection and happy that she was proud of him. "Are you shopping for the Rivalry Week barbecue?" he asked Julie, with his eyes fixed on her face.

"Yep," she nodded, "Mom's over in the meat section worried about how we're going to feed all the Panthers and whoever else comes around. Are you going to be there, Grandma?"

"No way, Miss Julie," Grandma's eyes went wide, "all those young fellers running around and listenin' to wild music would just give me a big ol' heart attack, and Lord knows I don't need one of those. Games are enough excitement for me. Just don't put too much garlic in the barbecue sauce or all the players' girlfriends are gonna be complainin' later."

"Well, I got to get back to my Mom," Julie said, "I'll see you at school, Matt. And it was nice meeting you, Grandma." Matt smiled at her, and Grandma reminded her to tell her father what she said. Julie walked down the aisle and clearly heard Grandma Saracen telling Matt "Now that's the kind of young lady that would be good for you, Matthew." Wait, where did that come from?

Julie practically jumped with the next words that she barely heard. "C'mon, Grandma. She's Coach's daughter. I know she's beautiful, and she's smart too, but I can't get myself into trouble here." If she didn't actually jump, she could definitely feel that her heart did.

Julie was too busy smiling to herself to hear whatever came after that. About twenty steps later she realized that her basket was still empty. What was she supposed to get again? After what she'd heard, it would be way too much to run into Matt and his grandma a second time. She took a deep breath to make sure the shelves didn't start spinning. A boy said she was beautiful.

* * *

Maybe it was frustration at having lost to the Gatling Eagles on Friday night. Maybe it was just the ugly side of rivalry appearing one more time. Maybe it was revenge for having recruited Voodoo Tatum. Maybe it was an attempt to neutralize the Panthers' advantage of coming off a bye week. The only thing that was clear was that between Friday night and Saturday morning practice, some supporters of the Arnett Mead Tigers – if not some players as well – broke into the Dillon Panthers' locker room and vandalized it in every way imaginable, even using bolt cutters to open the players' lockers and urinating or pouring other smelly liquids inside them.

Coach Taylor noticed his players' disgust. He'd seen plenty of nasty exploits due to small town high school rivalry in his day, and he'd seen how easily things could escalate, even to the point of serious injury. What he said to the Panthers in the field house as he surveyed the damage – and tried to calculate how much time and money would be needed to repair everything – was, in his sternest voice possible, "This ends here. I say from today on we focus, and on Friday night we punish."

Still, he knew that inevitably, every football team had at least a few hotheads on it, and there was no guarantee that his instructions would be obeyed. Only being the coach's son had kept him from being required or even forced to participate in similar shenanigans back in his own days as a high school quarterback. It hadn't kept him from being targeted, though: the unofficial code of rivalry said coaches, players, and their homes were fair game, while wives and other family members weren't. Why should anything be different now? The only option open to him, if there was any kind of reprisal that took place and he actually found out about it, was to punish whoever he found out was involved – or everyone, if no names came out – after the fact. For him, seeing Arnett Mead lose to the Panthers would be enough revenge. He'd beaten them before as a quarterback, wearing the same blue and gold Dillon Panther uniform, spoiling what had been an undefeated season for the Tigers until then and handing them their only loss until the State semifinals. It could be done.

"Guy just won't listen." Andy's voice barely registered in Eric's ear. He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed his quarterbacks coach at his side. Andy's voice was low but his face was redder than the weather would explain.

"Which guy?" Eric asked, although he was pretty sure he already new the answer.

"Nickname." Eric had taught his assistants to speak about players in code during practices, so they wouldn't overhear comments directed at themselves and be affected by them. It was one of the useful things his father had taught him, which Eric would have appreciated more if his father's way of teaching had been different. "Thinks he knows everything already, and the problem is, he's not too far off on that. Might be better than Lucas." That meant something, coming from Andy, who'd been Lucas Mize's backup and definitely no friend of his.

"What about sophomore?" That meant Matt Saracen, because the third quarterback, Brad Weston, was a junior.

"Not ready yet, but turning himself inside out to get there." Kind of like Andy himself had been, except he'd never gotten his chance to start.

"OK, just keep it up and let me know." Eric gave his assistant a quick pat on the shoulder. "If there's too much of a problem, get Mac to deal with it. Thanks for the heads-up."

And the practice went on. Andy went back to work with his players, and Eric called over his defensive assistants to instruct them on specific packages to work on. This wasn't going to be an easy game, so he wanted all his units to be tested. He winced at hearing his father's voice inside his head again "Nobody wins games by givin' players a break, kid. If you're not tough on them, they're not tough on themselves and on the other guys. If you could see things right you'd thank me for it."

_Too late for that, Dad._ His father was buried in Lubbock, dead of a heart attack at fifty-four, and that fact had thrown a chunk of ice into his relationship – and Tami and the kids' relationship as well - with his mother. _Dammit, quit thinking about the past_. He ran to midfield and started to address his players, telling them how they were going to have to execute their plays faster if they wanted to win this game.

* * *

Tami felt like her home, her space, and her life had been invaded. And objectively, they had. By barbecue smoke, loud music, garbage, and football players, with everything else that implied. Julie had been the smart one: she'd escaped to her friend Lois's house in the morning and was showing no signs of coming back. Brendan was out in the backyard working the grill, with the help of a few of the players and assistant coaches. Eric was alternating between the grill and talking to various groups of people, not staying long before he moved on to some others. Tami'd tried to be a good hostess, making all the appropriate pieces of conversation, but by now she'd had enough. Her son and daughter had good enough manners that she'd forgotten how dozens of other teenagers could act. Well, not exactly, but with that many of them in the same place, eating like there was no tomorrow and who cares where the food landed... she was way out of her comfort zone. And why did the whole barbecue have to be held at her house? Why not at school or at a park or in the stadium?

Her response to this situation surprised her more than the situation itself did. She hadn't hidden under a table since she was a little girl, not counting earthquake readiness drills in school. On the other hand, she didn't have a whole lot of options available to her if she wanted to take a breather and then put on her hostess mask again. What surprised her even more than that was that Eric had noticed and soon came to join her.

"Tami, I need you to help me host," he said. That wasn't helpful.

"I think I might stay down here a while," she countered.

"I'm sorry you're upset," Eric said, and he looked like he meant it. Of course. He always did. His problem was not understanding what made her upset. "Just take a deep breath so you don't end up saying anything you might regret."

"Like what?" Tami said. "OK, let's not go into that. I did it, Eric. I threw the party, with no advance notice, I put everything together, there's nothing at all your football players – who are absolute pigs, by the way – could complain about, I'm even cleaning up after everyone and when I go back out there I'll have a big smile on my face, but down here? I. Am. Pissed. And when everyone's gone, don't forget to thank our kids for helping to buy and bring all the stuff that you didn't tell me I was going to need for all the people I didn't know were going to come."

"Tami," and his voice was weary too, "I get it. I thought you remembered from the other years this is what happens. It's not like we haven't been to one of these before."

"Well, forgive me for thinking about other things than the obligations of a football coach's wife!" And Eric, he didn't rise to the bait, though – instead what he did was to take her hand in his and say "Honey, you've done a wonderful job. And tomorrow night I'm taking you out to the restaurant of your choice. Julie and Brendan can take care of each other or burn the house down." Dammit, this man made it impossible to enjoy a good argument. "Just please, when you're done and ready, help me host. I need help out there with everybody I got to deal with." And then he went back out there, and the next thing Tami heard was somebody with a loud voice asking him, "So, Coach, who exactly is gonna start on Friday, made up yer mind yet?"

"Actually, I think I'm going to revolutionize the game of football," Eric said in a voice that Tami knew was intended to be heard by the whole room. "I'm going to eliminate the quarterback position and put a whole bunch of running backs out there running every kind of counter and reverse known to man." She had to smile at that: Eric's favorite tactic had always been to render the other person speechless. No wonder he'd become the undisputed leader of the debate team – at her urging and in spite of his complete disinclination – back in high school. Others could talk big and conjure impressive sentences out of hot air, but her man, he always cut right to the point.

Just when she'd come back out from under the table and made her way out to the backyard, a brick came flying through the front window. The car the brick had been thrown from immediately sped away. All Tami could see was that it was black.

"Aw, man," Eric said in a voice Tami could decipher easily. It really meant "I know this kind of stuff happens all the time, but did it have to happen now?". He bent over and read the paper that the brick had come wrapped in. "Die Panther pigs," he read in a flat voice. "Couldn't they have come up with something a bit more original?"

"Like what?" Andy the quarterbacks coach said.

"I'm not saying," Eric replied. "Don't want anybody getting any ideas."


	8. Different Intentions

_Author's Note: _I told you it'd be slow going. I'm in the middle of a ton of work stuff and will be until the start of October. Be sure that I haven't abandoned the story, though - feedback and curiosity are always welcome, as is any discussion of how I expect the story to shape up in the rest of Season 1 and the other seasons too. And let me issue a general invitation to anyone who's writing a story (or thinking of it) and wants to bounce around some ideas, or to get some football details right, et cetera - zap me a message and something will happen.

**Not Everyone Likes Football**

**Chapter 8**

**Different Intentions**

In the Taylor family, Brendan and Tami were the early risers and Julie and Eric were the sleepyheads or the slow starters. At seven on Monday morning, Julie was dragging herself to the refrigerator, still in her pajamas, while Tami was fully dressed and demolishing a fruit salad. Eric was sitting down at the breakfast table waiting for the machine to make his coffee ready, and Brendan was in the shower after finishing an early morning workout.

"We need to talk about driving arrangements this afternoon," Tami said to Eric while he was still rubbing the dust out of his eyes.

"What do you mean?" he half-asked and half-yawned in response.

This woke Julie up instantly. She put her hands on her hips and gave her father a stern glare. "OK, Dad, take your pick. Eye roll, storm off, or exasperated wail. And make sure you're watching."

He shook his head for a second and looked at her. "Julie Taylor, you are the most beautiful daughter a man could have."

"Nice try, Dad," Julie countered. "Flattery only works on Mom."

"How about if you just tell me what's going on?" Eric moaned. Tami was about to do just that – and as it seemed to her, so was Julie – when Brendan wandered into the kitchen in his T-shirt and shorts, singing "_If I can't have you – I don't want nobody, baby, if I can't have you – ah ah ah!_"

"What on Earth has got you acting like that at seven in the morning?" Julie scrunched up her face at her brother's antics.

"Hot water. Strength. Finally feeling awake. The expectation of a good breakfast with all those barbecue leftovers, which, by the way, thank God it's finally over," was his reply.

"Boy, you can say that again," Tami stage-whispered.

"So who is it that you want but can't have?" Julie asked him.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe Keeley Hazell or Nikkala Stott."

"Who are they?" Julie's eyes went wide.

"British models."

"Eeww, get out of here!" She pretended to throw an orange at Brendan. "You have no taste. At least you could have said someone with some actual talent, not one of those girls who just stand around with their clothes off! Besides, between plastic surgery and Photoshop, nobody ever really looks like those pictures."

"I know a site that's got an all-natural policy," her brother countered. "And if you throw that orange at me, I'm eating it."

Tami gave both of her children her best version of the stare she reserved for the most troublesome students. "You two are absolutely _not _having this discussion at our breakfast table."

"Son, we need to have a talk sometime." Eric said just about two seconds later.

"About what, Dad?" Brendan spread his hands. "How some pictures on the Internet aren't real and I shouldn't have unrealistic expectations and if I do have a girlfriend, it's not respectful to her to look at other pictures or expect her to be like somebody else? Give me a break, I know all that. It's just that since real is probably not happening for me any time in the near future, I might as well enjoy some unreal. It's not like I go to the Landing Strip or anything, or like I ever would."

Eric quickly took advantage of his son's comments to fill his coffee cup. Tami tapped the table with the back of her fork twice and said "How about if we get back to something that really matters?"

"Where am I taking you out to dinner tonight, honey?" Eric looked at her expectantly. "You remember I promised."

"Dad." Julie cut in, this time with her elbows crossed in front of her, still holding the orange in one hand. "I'm giving you one more chance. Why isn't Brendan going to work this afternoon?"

"Cause you've got your dance recital downtown at seven, right?" Brendan replied before Eric could say anything.

"Finally! Thank you Brother Bear!" Julie mock-exclaimed. "You win an orange!" And she threw it to him, but softly, to make sure he'd catch it, which he did, rather easily. True to his word, he immediately started peeling it.

"I thought that was next week, Monkey Noodle," Eric turned his chair towards Julie. She rolled her eyes at him, in spite of his plaintive facial expression. "I can't believe you thought I'd miss it." Brendan went to the fridge and started rummaging through the leftovers to put together the ingredients for his Monday morning omelet.

"That's why we need to keep a calendar on the fridge and write stuff in it instead of knocking it down," Tami cut in. "And before anybody's late for school, Julie needs to be at the theater downtown at six at the latest. Eric, what time does your practice finish?"

"At six." Eric said and took a swallow of his coffee. "I can be out of there ten minutes after."

"So that means that the three of us need to head downtown at least twenty minutes before that," Tami said. "Then Brendan, you need to take the car back to school and then the two of you can catch up with us. I think that squares everything away."

"Tami, are you sure you weren't a drill sergeant in a past life?" her husband asked her. "And when am I taking you out then?"

"Tomorrow, of course, soldier boy," she stood up and gave him a quick squeeze around his shoulders. "Brendan can eat at work and I'll make sure Julie has something she can warm up."

"Just leave me enough things I can use to make a salad and I'll be fine," Julie said while she prepared a bowl of cereal for herself, complete with a mixture of banana slices, dried fruits, and nuts. In fact, it was somewhat hard to figure out that it really was a bowl of cereal, considering how many different ingredients she added, practically filling the bowl to its edge. How the milk fit in after that was another mystery.

"Just one thing, Brendan," Eric said, "Don't change my Panther radio. If you don't want to listen to it, just turn it off or put in a tape or a CD or something, but don't change the station. I hate having to do that."

"Jeez, everyone's in a real wonderful mood today," Brendan grumbled from the kitchen, where he'd started fixing his omelet. This time around, that meant finely chopping a bunch of barbecue leftovers and throwing them in the frying pan and then throwing raw scrambled eggs on top of that.

"Any more talk about models with their clothes off around here," Tami said, standing up and looking straight at him, "and you're cleaning the garage every Saturday this month."

"Mom, it was just a joke," he said.

"No, it wasn't," was Tami's reply. Brendan looked back at her and decided to concentrate on his omelet.

* * *

Eric ended up being late to Julie's dance recital. He'd been true to his word and left the field house at ten after six, and Brendan had shown up five minutes after that with the car, but the traffic going back downtown was slow and then right after Eric had found a place to park, his cell phone rang. He was in a hurry, so he didn't even look to see who was calling.

"Coach Taylor," he answered in a short-tempered voice. After all, that's who he was to everyone in this town.

"Coach? T-this is Matt, S-saracen." And it sounded like he'd had trouble getting those words out. He was a shy kid all right, but this was like it hurt him to talk.

"Something wrong, Saracen?"

"I n-need s-somebody to t-take me to the h-hospital. F-four guys from Arnett Mead – jumped me j-just now. I d-didn't know who else t-to call, L-landry's got band practice and his f-folks are at w-work. G-grandma can't drive no m-more."

"You just hang on there, son," Eric said, "Tell me where y' are and I'll be right out there." Then he turned to his son and said "Saracen's hurt and needs a ride to Memorial. You go in and tell your Mom and Julie that I'll be back as fast as I can."

Brendan looked at him like he'd just said the sky was pink with purple polka dots. "You sure about that, Dad?"

Eric looked right back at him the same way. "Hell yeah, I'm sure. Kid's got nobody to look out for him. His grandma's too old, his dad's in Iraq, and who knows where his mom is."

Brendan lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender and then got out of the car. Eric switched the car into reverse and headed back onto the road. Ten minutes later, thanks to some semi-reckless driving, he was in the parking lot of the Alamo Freeze. Matt was waiting for him just outside the building, in the shadows so no customers could see him. He'd made an effort to clean himself up, but it was all too clear that he'd been attacked. Both sides of his face were swollen and red and he'd plugged up his nose with Kleenex to stop it from bleeding. His arms were bruised in several places and his hands were scraped.

"Get in, son," Eric told his quarterback. "You can tell me about it on the way." Matt got into the car slowly.

_Either they'd followed him from school right after practice, or they already knew where he worked and when he'd be showing up there. Out there in the parking lot, the Arnett Mead quarterback had stepped into his path and said "I think I remember you taking a baseball bat to my car last night."_

_ Right then, Matt looked around and noticed three other guys converging on him. Big guys, linemen for sure. He took a couple of steps back to keep everyone in his field of vision as best he could, and tried to crack a joke to kill some time. "Y' all want a swizzler or a sandwich or something?"_

_ "How about you tell us who else was with you?" One of the other guys said._

_ "Nobody was," Matt said, "I found the address, I drove the car, I got the bat out, and then I jumped back in and drove away."_

_ "You think we're stupid?" Troy said. That was his name, Matt remembered._

_ "I think you're scared of us." Matt said without really feeling as brave as he talked. "Otherwise you wouldn't be trying to get players injured before a game."_

_ "Scared of you?" Troy laughed in his face. "You ain't even thrown two touchdown passes in a game yet, Mr. Noodle arm. You couldn't even bring it in against San Marco." The other guys from Arnett all hooted. "I threw five TD's against them last year, bet you'll never do that."_

_ Matt felt his face reddening, but he didn't respond to the insults. They wanted to get him mad, they wanted him to throw the first punch. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction._

_ "You got one more chance." The other guys had all gotten a lot closer to him. "Who was there?"_

_ "He was," Matt said, pointing to Troy, "once the alarm went off. Then his dad came out." At the same time, he tried to watch for some kind of signal, some way to figure out when they'd all go after him. Maybe he could slip past them somehow, get back onto the street where they'd be seen for sure if they attacked him. Or somebody might come into the parking lot._

_ "You think you're funny, Saracen." One of the other guys again. "I'm looking forward to dumping you in the dirt." Then somebody on his other side shoved him. Matt tried to move with the push, so he wouldn't have anyone behind him, so he could face any punch thrown at him. And then all four of them ran at him, and the best he could do was try to get a few solid punches in before he got knocked down or held or whatever. "Tell me who was with you, piss-ant, or we break your arm." Troy yelled at him at one point. Matt just did whatever he could to try to stay standing; there was no way to fend off all the blows, but he knew that if he got knocked down, that was it, there was no stopping whatever they got it in their heads to do. Luckily, after a few __endless __minutes somebody drove into the parking lot and shouted "You punks, what the hell do you think you're doing?", which made the guys from Arnett run like crazy across the street and down the block, wherever it was that they had to have parked. __They were out of there before he could catch his breath again._

"So did you mention any names?" Eric asked him.

"No," Matt said and shook his head with a visible wince. "And with all due respect, Sir, I'm still not going to."

"Tell me something," Eric said after a minute or two, "You got a girlfriend, somebody you're interested in at all?"

"Sorta." Matt waved one bloody hand in front of his chest.

"Forget about sorta." Eric shook his head. "I need you to forget about all this and get yourself relaxed for the game. Take her out to a movie, show her a good time, get her in your goddam backseat if you really feel you need to. I want you loose and confident out there on the field."

Matt didn't say anything in response to that, he just swallowed a bit. By that time they were almost at Dillon Memorial Hospital.

"Sorry I can't take you home right after," Eric said as they got out of the car, "But I'm missing my daughter's recital right now, and if I don't show up by when it ends... well, I hope you like jazz dance."

* * *

What on Earth was Matt Saracen doing there?

Julie could see the audience from where she was waiting in the wings to go onstage. Mom and had been there the whole time, except for the first few minutes when parents or families were still allowed backstage with her and the other girls for a bit of chitchat. Brendan had gone to get Dad, and by the time he came back Julie had to change into her leotard and tights.

"You know, your brother's kind of turned into a hunk," Lois had whispered to her while they changed. "If he wasn't a full-blown weirdo I might be agreeable, if you get what I mean."

Julie was torn between disgust at the idea of her friend salivating over her brother and anger on his behalf. This town was the place that was full of weirdos; Brendan was a protective and loyal brother and had his head on straight most of the time. Julie knew that if any guy ever tried to hurt her, Brendan would be after him like Batman on steroids. Just like she knew that anytime she needed to talk with him about something, he'd drop whatever he was doing to listen to her.

"He is totally not your type, kiddo," she told the other girl as they pinned up their hair. "You like dancing and he hates it, you like parties and he likes hanging out with a few friends or disappearing on his bike."

"Oh well, plenty of other rats here in the desert." Lois tended to alternate between jaded criticism of all guys in general and mooning over some particular one of them. "If he ever turns normal, though, make sure I know about it before anybody else does, okay girl?" What was "normal" around here anyway? Somebody like Tim Riggins who drank his way through the week? Or Bradley Cole, who all the girls rolled their eyes at because he was so freaking obvious with the way he stared at their legs and tops? Or Smash Williams, milking his star status for every perk or favor he could get? Jason Street had seemed all right from what Julie could notice, always polite and friendly the few times he'd come over to the Taylors' house, but now he was wheelchair-bound for life.

After she finished changing, Julie took a look at the audience. Most of the parents she knew were there; not everyone was as insistent about the whole family attending every event as the Taylors were. Brendan had come back, but Dad wasn't there. Why was that?

And then he showed up later, when the recital had already started, with Matt Saracen right behind him. And even from a distance, Julie could see that there was something wrong with Matt's face, and not just because he kept tilting his head down. Anyway, she had to concentrate on her dance routine; she'd be going on stage in a few minutes. She replayed the steps in her head and took a few deep breaths. If she was honest with herself, though, her mind did sometimes flutter back to those words she'd overheard in the supermarket a few days ago.

"Julie, your group is on stage in one minute, get lined up." Ashley, her instructor, tapped her on the shoulder. Julie moved over to join the other girls, including Lois, and tried to block everything else except dancing from her mind. She wasn't completely successful, but at least she didn't make any mistakes.

"You looked great out there, honey," Julie received a quick hug from her mom once the recital was over. Dad was a couple of steps behind her, then Brendan, and then Matt, who still looked like he'd gotten hurt somehow. Her father and brother also hugged her and offered some compliments of their own. Matt was still hanging a few steps behind, and then he turned and gave her a slight smile and said hi. Up close he looked a lot worse than she'd noticed before.

"What happened to you, Matt?" she asked him. Meanwhile, out of the corner of her eye she noticed Mom taking Dad by the arm and leading him off to the side to talk with Ashley and with some of the other parents. Brendan was probably leaning against a wall somewhere counting the minutes until they could go home.

He sort of frowned. "Arnett Mead happened. Four guys from there went after me where I work."

"Oh my God!" Julie had been at Lois' house on the day of the barbecue, and she'd come home in the evening to find Brendan and Dad putting up something to cover the broken window and Mom on the phone arguing with a repairman about when he could come over. "Why'd they do that?"

"They wanted..." and then he hesitated. "Never mind. Long story. Your Dad helped me."

"I hope you weren't too bored having to watch," she said.

"No, I liked it," Matt smiled. "The music was nice and – the dancing was kind of like waves of colors. Reminded me of Jackson Pollock, I like his paintings."

"The way we danced reminds you of Jackson Pollock?" Julie raised her eyebrows. "That's, well, original., but what do you mean?"

"Maybe it's kind of a stretch," he said. "Or maybe I just don't know how to explain it right." And then he started asking her about how long she'd been dancing and how she'd gotten interested in it. She asked him again about Jackson Pollock and some other painters, and he told her that ever since he was little he'd always liked to draw and paint. The way his voice sounded, it was almost like he was asking her permission to say something each time. In no time at all Mom was at her side, or maybe it just felt like no time at all.

"Julie, we need to take Matt home soon so his grandma won't be worried about him." she said, and then turning to him, she added "It's OK, Matt, Eric called her a bit ago and told her you're all right." Dad and Brendan were talking to each other just below the stage, and Julie could tell by the way they moved their arms that they weren't agreeing about something. Still, they stopped and came over once Mom gave them a wave. Julie sighed: time to go back.

It was crowded with three people in the backseat, and every time they turned left Brendan kept squashing her and then trying to push back and apologizing. Or he kept trying to push to the other side and squashing Matt, which just gave him another person to apologize to. She didn't get to talk to Matt, who was on Brendan's other side, because Mom kept talking to him, asking him questions about his grandma and how she was doing and whether he'd heard from his Dad who was still over in Iraq, when he might be coming home. Oh well, maybe they'd get a chance to talk again at school.

* * *

Tami let out a deep breath as she finished removing her makeup. She'd already changed into her nightgown, just like Eric had already changed into an old T-shirt and shorts and stretched out on the bed. Their parenting responsibilities were done for the night, unless there was some urgent reason for the contrary. At this age, though, Julie and Brendan were very skilled at taking care of themselves and each other. Besides, how much trouble could they get into while doing their homework? She wanted to ask Eric about what had happened to Matt and how he was, but Eric's reaction the other time she'd mentioned him had been unpleasant. She'd wait to make sure he was in a better mood before bringing up the subject.

"Tami Taylor, have I told you how wondrously beautiful you are this evening?" Eric had crept up on her and had his hand on her shoulder as she sat in front of the vanity mirror.

"How come you always tell me that when I take my make-up off and not when I'm putting it on?" she asked him with a teasing smile and smacked his forearm.

"Well, when you put it on you're always in a hurry," Eric drawled, "and this way you know it's you that I'm appreciating and not the stuff you put on yourself, which you do a great job of, by the way." When they'd first met, in fact, she'd been thinking that being a makeup artist or a beautician would be the best possible job she could manage. Until Eric had convinced her to aim higher.

"Aw, Eric, you always think up the sweetest things to say," she turned and kissed her husband. "I hope I won't find a collection of everything you've said in a book in the glove compartment."

"No copycatting ever, Tami," Eric said. "Everything I come up with is pure original imagination, guaranteed."

"That's good to know," Tami said. "Where are we going out for dinner tomorrow?"

"I said it was your choice," Eric said, "so it's your call. Heck, I'll even make us a reservation if you want."

"How about Gran Castello in Barton?" she suggested. "A couple of the teachers told me they liked it."

"Missing your mom again?" Eric asked with a grin. This was his standard joke anytime Italian food was mentioned. After all, the man her mother had married – ten years after her dad had been killed in a crash on the interstate, and one year after her own wedding – was born in Sicily and managed an Italian restaurant in the North End of Boston. Tami often wondered what the food critics or some of the more traditionally minded customers would think if they found out that the restaurant's unofficial desert chef who produced competition-winning cannoli had been born in Waxahatchie, of all places. It had been quite an adjustment for Tami, but Franco "say it like Frahnko" Passamonti had made her mother happy, taken her sister Shelly under his wing, and had been a jovial host the two times the Taylor family had visited.

"Sometimes I do," she said wistfully. "Even Shelly does sometimes – what am I saying, she visits there more than she does here." Tami started brushing her hair out as a way to relax herself the way she did most evenings.

She could tell by the way Eric shifted slightly and his breath caught that he'd thought about saying something about her younger sister, but had restrained himself. He basically considered Shelly perpetually and incurably immature, and if it had been anyone but her own sister, Tami could have admitted he was more than half right. Or maybe he'd been thinking about his own mother, who he only spoke to over the phone a few times a year. That was a whole different messy story, but she was past resenting the fact that neither of Eric's parents had really accepted her.

"Let's make that reservation, Eric," she said.

"OK." he nodded and got up slowly. Then it was like his face deflated. "I really blew it today."

Tami turned around and stood up instantly, "What are you talking about, Eric?"

"With Saracen."

"What do you mean?" she asked. "You did the right thing to go pick him up. Julie didn't even mention it, since you were there at the end of the recital. I mean, the boy has no parents living with him."

"It's not that," Eric groaned. "It's worse. I basically – not straight out, but it's the way he might have heard it – told that boy to get our daughter into his backseat. I mean, I had no idea..."

"Eric." Time for what Brendan called her ice-missile voice. "Tell me what exactly you told that young man. Don't leave anything out, I mean it."

So he told her what he'd said, how it'd happened. "How was I supposed to know he meant our Julie and not some random cheerleader or somebody? I just wanted him to feel good out on the field there on Friday. And then after I saw how he looked at her... I was just mentally kicking myself all over the place."

"If you'd given Brendan the same advice you'd be sleeping in the garage." Tami countered. She didn't need to rub it in any farther. He'd figured it out. "Julie's growing up. Boys are going to be real to her. We're in for it any time now."

"Oh no we're not," Eric said. "If any boy touches her, Brendan is breaking his arms and I'm sending her off to a nunnery in Norway or Switzerland."

"Don't be ridiculous, honey," she took his hand. "We can either help Julie get through this, or we can fight her at every step and make her see us as the enemy. I think you know which one's the better option."

"I do," he said soberly, "But it doesn't feel right. Seems like I was still buying her stuffed animals yesterday." Then he paused a few moments. "Actually, he's a good kid, as far as any high school boy is."

"Kind of like you were back then?" Tami threw him a tender glance. Some romantic reminiscing would get them into a good mood for the evening.

"I wasn't that shy back then," Eric smirked. "And if you think I was, I can show you for sure that I'm not now."

"That sounds interesting." She draped herself on the bed, facing him. "Why don't you?"

* * *

Brendan was getting some books out of his locker when he felt a tug on his shoulder. "Hey, Taylor, got a minute?"

He turned around and faced Quinn Chandler, who had a sober expression on his face. Brendan didn't say anything, just moved his free hand in a sort of "OK, start talking" gesture.

"I hope you're not thinking I'm the kind of guy who'd steal somebody's friends from him," Quinn said. He sounded apologetic.

"I don't know, are you?" Maybe that wasn't quite fair of him, but ever since he'd unilaterally taken over the job of welcoming Quinn to Dillon, Jay had been pretty much cool and distant with him.

"Look, I'd have to be ungrateful – and pretty damn stupid too – not to appreciate how you stuck up for me and set things up with Street. After I was getting run out of Westerby and all. But what Greer did – and I didn't feel right when it happened – that was about him, not about me."

"What do you mean?" Brendan finished putting a couple of books in his pack and closed his locker.

"Taylor – Brendan – I'm all right with you, you're a solid guy and I'm not forgettin' that." Quinn met his eyes as he said that, then turned his gaze a bit to the side. "But Jay Greer, you're gonna have some problems with him, I see that coming." Then he hesitated a little. "He thinks you hang with him 'cause he's different, cause he's from Jamaica and it's like he shares that with you. 'S not what he really wants, though."

"I don't get it, Quinn." Brendan shook his head once. "Just tell me what you're seeing, throw me the whole story here."

"Guy's tired of being different, he wants to fit in as a regular black American. That was why he stuck to me and then to Smash that day. It's not just a black and white thing. It's like if he was Chinese or something and you were after him to teach you it or he thought you liked him for his accent. Or like if you were both from the same country and you kept talkin' hometown on him."

"Jeez, that makes no sense at all," Brendan copied one of Julie's eye rolls. "You're saying he wants to be seen as black American, and not Jamaican, and I get in the way of that?"

"Yeah, that is what I'm saying here, bro," Quinn noted emphatically. "You're different and you appreciate people for bein' different, but he don't want to be that. That's his problem, not mine, not yours – or maybe it is yours if he decides to make it that way."

"How'd you figure this out? I mean, you've known him for just a few days."

"Stuff he says. Way he acts. This is just a heads-up from me, thought I should tell you how I call it. Maybe you can talk it over with him, maybe you can't. Maybe he hasn't got it all figured in his own head yet."

"I dunno," Brendan said, "If he thinks I'd shaft him if he wasn't Jamaican – you know that's not me, right? I'm not some redneck who's got the racial divide in his mind all the time. I learned Spanish from a friend – he's moved away now."

"I get it, man," Quinn put his hand on Brendan's arm for a second. "You're equal-opportunity. Maybe Greer thinks you'd respect him less if he just melts into the melting pot, see him as a sellout or somethin'. Anyway, 'nuff about that. I got some extra from Ray's for lunch, you up for it?"

"Sure, thanks. Just catch me right at the start of lunchtime, I'll see if I can get Mom to nuke it for us. Can't stand cold meat. Quinn, I got bio in a minute, think I'd better get there."

"You and me both, Brendan. Want to lead-block for me?" Quinn had to be feeling better if he could make a football joke.

"Sure. How's Jason doing? I didn't get to see him the last days. Maybe one day we can go find him and then you can come back for dinner, or lunch on a weekend."

"Street's got something on his mind, but I can't tell what. Maybe he's worried about when he goes home, maybe his girlfriend, I dunno. Dude's one hell of a trooper, but it's not easy for him." They set off together towards class. Before the teacher started the class, they agreed to go see Jason on Saturday.


End file.
